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AMERICAN POEMS 

1776-1900 

WITH NOTES AND BIOGRAPHIES 
BY 

AUGUSTUS WHITE LONG 

PRECEPTOR IN ENGLISH AT PRINCETON UNIVERSITY 

JOINT EDITOR OF ENGLISH POEMS FROM 

CHAUCER TO KIPLING 



o>»ic 



NEW YORK •:• CINCINNATI •:• CHICAGO 

AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 

Two Copies Received 

DEC 29 1905 

Copyriffht Entry 

CLASS a. XXc. No. 

/ 34 9 *? ? 
COPY B. 



Copyright, 1905, by 
AUGUSTUS WHITE LONG. 

Enterep at Stationers' Hall, London. 

long's am. poems. 
W. P. I 



INTRODUCTION 

The purpose of this volume is not to thrust upon the pubUc 
another anthology which, after decorating the drawing-room table 
a few days at Christmas, shall go to rest under the dust on the top 
shelf. On the contrary, it is intended to serve in the hands of 
students as a useful collection of American verse, with notes of 
explanation and interpretation, which shall illustrate the growth 
and spirit of American life as expressed in its literature. More- 
over, it should, by giving new perceptions of power and beauty, 
lift the spirit and increase the sum of human enjoyment. " Lit- 
erature is the record of the best thoughts," says Emerson ; and 
the best thoughts of the best Americans are most assuredly worthy 
of careful study. 

The notes are intended primarily, not to ask puzzling questions, 
but to give information. It may be objected by some critics that 
much is explained that is already obvious ; such criticism, how- 
ever, is most likely to be made by those who have never taught 
school. The brief critical comments which have been added to 
the explanatory notes are meant to interpret the poems to the 
student and to win his attention and sympathy. In the biographical 
sketches, the aim has been to avoid all matters which are obscure 
or which may lead to fruitless discussion. The purpose of these 
sketches is to inform, and, if possible, to entertain and awaken 
interest. As a whole, the volume does not pretend to exhaustive- 
ness, either in its selections or its notes, but is rather meant to 
serve as an introduction to the systematic study of American poetry. 

The field has been divided into three periods. The Early 
Period begins with Freneau, and includes the writers who pre- 
ceded Bryant. These writers had many traits in common. They 

3 



4 INTRODUCTION 

were imitators, for the most part, of English models ; and their 
work was often marred by sentimentality. But they show growth 
in literary form, and their work gives evidence that the young 
nation was developing into national consciousness. 

The Middle Period includes not only the greater names, — 
Bryant, Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, Poe, Holmes, and Lowell, — 
but many lesser names that cluster about them. This period closes 
with Mr. Thompson's The High Tide at Gettysburg, which may 
be said to mark the culmination of the impulse given to letters by 
the Civil War. Deep feeling and imaginative power stamp this 
period as the greatest in our literary history. The two chief forces 
that made it great were the revival of letters in New England and 
the Civil War. 

The Later Period, which deals with writers who are for the most 
part still living, naturally does not possess the depth of feeling and 
the sustained imaginative power of poetry inspired by a great war, 
but it does possess real feeling and imagination. Moreover, it 
possesses a dominant urbanity, humor, and grace, and everywhere 
displays lightness of touch and dexterousness of form. Its defi- 
ciencies are apparently those of a period of waiting. What the 
future will bring forth may only be guessed at vaguely. It seems 
reasonably sure, however, that the splendid material and political 
activity of the United States at the present day — the surge of life 
that every day beats around our feet — must in due time find fit 
literary expression ; and those of us who believe strongly in the 
commercial and political future of the country are no less confi- 
dent of the future of American letters. 

Grateful acknowledgment for permission to use copyrighted 
selections is given as follows : to Maynard, Merrill & Co. for the 
selections by N. P. Willis; to J. B. Lippincott Company for 
the selections by T. B. Read and G. H. Boker ; to the Robert 
Clarke Company for " Antony to Cleopatra," from their edition of 
the Poems of General Wilham Haines Lytle ; to Lothrop, Lee 
& Shepard Company for the selections by P. H. Hayne \ to 
McClure, Phillips & Co., publishers, for the selection by Edwin 



INTRODUCTION 5 

Markhani ; to Collier's Weekly for the selection by Caroline Duer ; 
to Harper's Weekly for the selection by G. W. Carryl ; to Harper's 
Magazine for the selection by J. B. Gilder. The selections by 
Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes, Lowell, W. W. Story, 
Julia Ward Howe, T. W. Parsons, Bayard Taylor, J. T. Trow- 
bridge, E. C. Stedman, T. B. Aldrich, John Hay, Bret Harte, 

E. R. Sill, Maurice Thompson, E. M. Thomas, F. D. Sherman, 
L. I. Guiney, and W. V. Moody are used by permission of, and 
by special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers 
of their works. 

For further courtesies in matters of copyright, the editor is also 
indebted to : D. Appleton & Co. ; The Bobbs-Merrill Co. ; The 
Century Co. ; Henry T. Coates & Co. ; Small, Maynard & Co. ; 

F. M. Finch ; G. J. Preston ; Rosa N. Ticknor ; C. L. Moore ; 
Will H. Thompson ; W. T. Meredith ; Lloyd Mifflin ; John Vance 
Cheney ; Arthur Peterson \ W. Gordon McCabe ; James R. 
Randall. 

To Mr. E. C. Stedman the special acknowledgment of the edi- 
tor is due, and is cordially given, for the free use made of the 
texts in An American Anthology, and for indispensable help from 
the biographical notes. Many other books have also been of 
service. For illuminating suggestion, mention should be made of 
Professor Wendell's Literary History of America, Professor Wood- 
berry's America in Literature, and Professor Trent's Af?terican 
Literature. 

To Professor Henry van Dyke, Professor T. W. Hunt, Professor 
T. M. Parrott, and Professor H. F. Covington, of Princeton Uni- 
versity, and to Mr. W. M. Reed and Mr. J. J. Moment, the editor 
is greatly indebted for generous assistance in numberless ways. 

A. W. L. 

Princeton University, 
September i, 1905. 



CONTENTS 

EARLY PERIOD 

PAGE 

PHILIP FRENEAU 

The Indian Burying Ground .16 

The Wild Honeysuckle 17 

Eutaw Springs • 18 

JOSEPH HOPKINSON 

Hail Columbia • . . .19 

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY 

The Star-spangled Banner .21 

CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE 

A Visit from St. Nicholas . .23 

JOHN PIERPONT 

The Exile at Rest . . . . . . . . ' ^S 

Warren's Address to the American Soldiers .... 26 

The Ballot 27 

SAMUEL WOODWORTH 

The Bucket • 27 

RICHARD HENRY WILDE 

My Life is Like the Summer Rose ...... 29 

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE 

Home, Sweet Home ! 30 

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake 31 

Marco Bozzaris .......... 32 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 

The American Flag .... .... 36 

7 



8 CONTENTS 

PAGE 

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY 

A Health 39 

A Serenade 40 

GEORGE POPE MORRIS 

Woodman, spare that Tree ! 41 

ALBERT GORTON GREENE 

The Baron's Last Banquet ,42 

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 

Unseen Spirits 45 

Spring .46 

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN 

Monterey ........... ^'j 

SAMUEL FRANCIS SMITH 

America ...........49 

PARK BENJAMIN 

The Old Sexton 50 

EPES SARGENT 

A Life on the Ocean Wave 51 

PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE 

Florence Vane . .52 

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH 

Ben Bolt • . . . . . . . . . .54 

MIDDLE PERIOD 

I. BRYANT, EMERSON, LONGFELLOW, WHITTIER, POE, 
HOLMES, AND LOWELL 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

Thanatopsis .......... 58 

The Flood of Years 60 

The Battlefield 65 

The Death of the Flowers . . . ,• • • • .66 

The Evening Wind 67 

To the Fringed Gentian ........ 69 

To a Waterfowl . . . . • . . . . . . 6y 

America ........... 71 



CONTENTS • 9 

FAGB 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

Concord Hymn . . 75 

The Problem 75 

Each and All 78 

Days 79 

Forbearance 80 

The Humble-bee 80 

The Snow-storm . 82 

The Rhodora .83 

Good-by, Proud World ! S3 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

The Skeleton in Armor 86 

The Cumberland . 91 

The Wreck of the Hesperus -93 

The Village Blacksmith 96 

The Bridge 98 

The Day is Done loo 

My Lost Youth loi 

The Poet and his Songs 104 

Nature 105 

Hymn to the Night 106 

In the Churchyard at Tarrytown ....... 106 

The Republic 107 

Daybreak 108 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

Proem . . no 

Ichabod 112 

The Lost Occasion 113 

The Farewell 115 

LausDeo! 118 

Skipper Ireson's Ride ......... 120 

The Barefoot Boy ' 123 

Telling the Bees . . 126 

My Playmate 128 

Amy Wentworth 130 

The Eternal Goodness 132 

EDGAR ALLAN FOE 

To Helen . . . . ' 139 

To One in Paradise ......... 139 



lO • CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Bells 140 

The Raven 144 

The Haunted Palace 148 

The City in the Sea 149 

Israfel . , 151 

The Sleeper 153 

Ulalume 155 

Annabel Lee . 158 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

Old Ironsides .......... 161 

The Last Leaf . 162 

The Chambered Nautilus . . . . . . . .164 

The Living Temple . , . . . . . . .165 

Nearing the Snow-line ........ 167 

The Boys 167 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 

What is so Rare as a Day in June? 171 

The Courtin' 173 

A Vision of Peace. (From The Biglow Papers) . ' . .176 

Lincoln . . . . . . . . . .178 

Virginia. (From Under the Old Ebri) . . . . .180 

To the DandeHon 181 

Hebe 183 

She Came and Went . .184 

Auf Wiedersehen 185 

II. ADDITIONAL POETS 
WALT WHITMAN 

O Captain! My Captain! 186 

As Toilsome I wandered Virginia's Woods . . . . . 1S7 
When Lilacs last in the Dooryard Bloom'd ..... 188 

HENRY PETERSON 

From an Ode for Decoration Day ...... 193 

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY 

lo Victis 194 

JULIA WARD HOWE 

Battle Hymn of the Republic . , , , . , . 196 



CONTENTS 1 1 

PAGE 

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS 

On a Bust of Dante 197 

THEODORE O'HARA 

The Bivouac of the Dead 199 

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 

Drifting 203 

JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON 

Music in Camp .......... 206 

FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 

Little Giffen 209 

GEORGE HENRY BOKER 

A Ballad of Sir John Franklin 210 

Dirge for a Soldier 215 

BAYARD TAYLOR 

Bedouin Song 216 

America ........... 218 

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 

Abraham Lincoln ......... 219 

FRANCIS MILES FINCH 

The Blue and the Gray ........ 225 

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE 

The Vagabonds .......... 227 

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON 

A Grave in Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond (J. R. T.) . . 231 

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER 

My Old Kentucky Home 233 

WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE 

Antony to Cleopatra 234 

HENRY TIMROD 

Charleston 236 

At Magnolia Cemetery 237 



12 CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 

A Little While I fain would linger Yet 238 

The Mocking Bird ......... 240 

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 

Kearny at Seven Pines ........ 241 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 

Unguarded Gates 242 

Palabras Cariiiosas ......... 244 

Batuschka ........... 244 

JOHN HAY 

Jim Bludso of the Prairie Belle . 246 

JAMES RYDER RANDALL 

My Maryland 248 

ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN 

The Conquered Banner . . . . . . . .251 

ANONYMOUS 

The Confederate Flag 252 

BRET HARTE 

John Burns of Gettysburg . . 254 

Chiquita 258 

The Aged Stranger 259 

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 

The Fool's Prayer 261 

The Future 262 

Eve's Daughter . . 263 

WILLIAM GORDON McCABE 

Christmas Night of '62 264 

JOAQUIN MILLER 

Columbus . . 266 

Westward Ho! " 267 

SIDNEY LANIER 

Song of the Chattahoochee 269 

Tampa Robins 271 



CONTENTS 13 

PAGE 

ETHEL LYNN BEERS 

All quiet along the Potomac . 272 

WILLIAM TUCKEY MEREDITH 

Farragut . . . , 273 

RICHARD WATSON GILDER 

Sherman ........... 276 

Great Nature is an Army Gay ....... 276 

MARY WOOLSEY HOWL AND 

In the Hospital .......... 277 

LLOYD MIFFLIN 

Sesostris 278 

MAURICE THOMPSON 

A Prophecy .......... 279 

WILL HENRY THOMPSON 

The High Tide at Gettysburg 280 

LATER PERIOD 

HENRY VAN DYKE 

Tennyson ........... 283 

An Angler's Wish 285 

The Song Sparrow ......... 286 

EUGENE FIELD 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod . 287 

Little Boy Blue 289 

EDWIN MARKHAM 

The Man with the Hoe 290 

JOHN VANCE CHENEY 

The Man with the Hoe. A Reply ...... 292 

EDITH MATILDA THOMAS 

Mother England 294 

The Mother who died Too ........ 295 



14 CONTENTS 



PAGE 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

The Old Man and Jim ........ 296 

Ike Walton's Prayer 298 

CHARLES LEONARD MOORE 

To England ••........ 300 

CHARLES HENRY LUDERS 



303 



The Four Winds . ........ 

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER 

The Way to Arcady . . , . 304 

The Chaperon o . 307 

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN 

On a Greek Vase . . ........ 309 

On Some Buttercups 309 

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY 

The Wild Ride .310 

RICHARD HOVEY 

The Call of the Bugles 3^^ 

Unmanifest Destiny ......... 314 

Love in the Winds ......... 315 

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 

Robert Gould Shaw 316 

We are our Fathers' Sons . . . . . . . .318 

On a Soldier fallen in the Philippines 319 

CAROLINE DUER 

An International Episode 320 

GUY WETMORE CARRYL 

When the Great Gray Ships come In , 322 

JOSEPH B. GILDER 

The Parting of the Ways 324 

NOTES . . . , 325 



AMERICAN POEMS 

EARLY PERIOD 

PHILIP FRENEAU 

1752-1832 

Freneau was born of French Huguenot parentage in New York 
city, and died at '" Mount Pleasant," Monmouth County, New Jersey. 
He was graduated from Princeton in 1771, where James Madison, after- 
ward fourth President of the United States, was his classmate and 
roommate. Another fellow-student was Light Horse Harry Lee. 
These quick-witted youths breathed in together the air of burning 
patriotism which came from John Witherspoon, then president of 
Princeton, and each did a strong man's work in the great struggle 
which followed so soon after they were graduated. Freneau was the 
least brilliant figure of the three, but his labors in the cause of liberty 
were not less arduous or steadfast, or his courage and patriotism less 
high. 

Freneau's long life was one of great activity. He studied law, but 
afterward became a journalist and a practical navigator, and was inter- 
ested besides in various business enterprises. During his lifetime he 
was known chiefly as a patriotic satirist in verse and as a partisan 
journalist. None of his satires are familiar to readers of to-day, but 
they were effective in their own day in quickening public sentiment and 
in keeping the torch of liberty aflame. His fame to-day rests rather 
upon a handful of lyrics which have simplicity, sincerity, and beauty. 
Not even his most enthusiastic admirers would maintain that these lyrics 
are to be placed by the side of the greatest literary masterpieces, but 
they do have qualities that will long keep the name of Freneau alive. 

That this patriot, partisan, and poet should have met a sudden death 
is only in keeping with his tempestuous life. At the age of eighty, 
when returning home late one stormy night from a gathering of friends, 
he fell and broke his hip ; next morning he was found dead in the snow. 

15 



1 6 EARLY PERIOD 



THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND 

In spite of all the learned have said, 

I still my old opinion keep ; 
The posture that we give the dead 

Points out the soul's eternal sleep. 

Not so the ancients of these lands ; — 5 

The Indian, when from life released, 

Again is seated with his friends, 
And shares again the joyous feast. 

His imaged birds, and painted bowl, 

And venison, for a journey dressed, 10 

Bespeak the nature of the soul, 

Activity, that wants no rest. 

His bow for action ready bent, 

And arrows with a head of stone, 
Can only mean that life is spent, 15 

And not the old ideas' gone. 

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, 

No fraud upon the dead commit, — 
Observe the swelling turf, and say. 

They do not lie, but here they sit. 20 

Here still a lofty rock remains. 

On which the curious eye may trace 

(Now wasted half by wearing rains) 
The fancies of a ruder race. 

Here still an aged elm aspirfes, 25 

Beneath whose far-projecting shade 
(And which the shepherd still admires) 

The children of the forest played. 



FRENEAU 17 

There oft a restless Indian queen 

(Pale Shebah with her braided hair), 
And many a barbarous form is seen 

To chide the man that lingers there. 

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, 5 

In habit for the chase arrayed, 
The hunter still the deer pursues, 

The hunter and the deer — a shade ! 

And long shall timorous Fancy see 

The painted chief, and pointed spear, 10 

And Reason's self shall bow the knee . ' 

To shadows and delusions here. 



THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE 

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow. 

Hid in this silent, dull retreat. 
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, 15 

Unseen thy Httle branches greet : 
No roving foot shall crush thee here, 
No busy hand provoke a tear. 

By Nature's self in white arrayed. 

She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, 20 

And planted here the guardian shade. 
And sent soft waters murmuring by ; 
Thus quietly thy summer goes. 
Thy days declining to repose. 

Smit with those charms, that must decay, 25 

I grieve to see your future doom ; 
They died — nor were those flowers more gay. 

The flowers that did in Eden bloom; 

long's AM. POEMS — 2 



1 8 EARLY PERIOD 

Unpitying frosts and x'Vutumn's power 
Shall leave no vestige of this flower. 

From morning suns and evening dews 

At first thy little being came ; 
If nothing once, you nothing lose, 
For when you die you are the same ; 
The space between is but an hour, 
The frail duration of a flower. 



EUTAW SPRINGS 

At Eutaw Springs the valiant died : 

Their limbs with dust are covered o'er ; lo 

Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide ; 

How many heroes are no more ! 

If in this wreck of ruin they 

Can yet be thought to claim a tear, 
O smite thy gentle breast, and say 15 

The friends of freedom slumber here ! 

Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain, 

If goodness rules thy generous breast, 
Sigh for the wasted rural reign ; 

Sigh for the shepherds sunk to rest ! 20 

Stranger, their humble groves adorn ; 

You too may fall, and ask a tear : 
'Tis not the beauty of the morn 

That proves the evening shall be clear. 

They saw their injured country''s woe, 25 

The flaming town, the wasted field ; 
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe ; 

They took the spear — but left the shield. 



HOPKINSON 



19 



Led by thy conquering standards, Greene, 

The Britons they compelled to fly : 
None distant viewed the fatal plain, 

None grieved in such a cause to die — 

But, hke the Parthians famed of old, 5 

Who, flying, still their arrows threw, 

These routed Britons, full as bold, 
Retreated, and retreating slew. 

Now rest in peace our patriot band ; 

Though far from nature's limits thrown, 10 

We trust they find a happier land, 

A brighter Phoebus of their own. 

JOSEPH HOPKINSON 

1770-1842 

It was fitting that the author of Hail Cobwibia should be the son of 
a signer of the Declaration of Independence, Francis Hopkinson, law- 
yer, wit, and patriot. Joseph Hopkinson was born and died in Phila- 
delphia, where he rose to distinction as a lawyer and as a man of parts. 
He is chiefly remembered to-day by this one patriotic lyric. It was 
written in 1798, when the United States seemed on the verge of war 
with France. Washington had been called from retirement at Mount 
Vernon to assume charge of the American forces in case war should 
actually break out. The ode was sung first in Philadelphia at the 
benefit performance of an actor, but its broader purpose was to allay 
all bitterness between the two political parties in the United States by 
appealing in a spirited way to the feeling of national patriotism. 

HAIL COLUMBIA 

Hail, Columbia ! happy land ! 

Hail, ye heroes ! heaven-born band ! 

Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 15 

Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, 



20 EARLY PERIOD 

And when the storm of war was gone, 
Enjoyed the peace your valor won. 

Let independence be our boast, 

Ever mindful what it cost ; 

Ever grateful for the prize, 5 

Let its altar reach the skies. 

Firm, united, let us be, 
'Rallying round our Liberty; 
As a band of brothers joined, 
Peace and safety we shall find. lo 

Immortal patriots ! rise once more : 
Defend your rights, defend your shore : 

Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 

Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 
Invade the shrine where sacred lies 15 

Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. 

While offering peace sincere and just. 

In Heaven we place a manly trust, 

That truth and justice will prevail, 

And every scheme of bondage fail. 20 

Firm, united, etc. 

Sound, sound, the trump of Fame ! 
Let Washington's great name 

Ring through the world with loud applause. 

Ring through the world with loud applause ; 25 

Let every clime to Freedom dear, 
Listen with a joyful ear. 

With equal skill, and godlike power, 

He governed in the fearful hour 

Of horrid war ; or guides, with ease, 30 

The happier times of honest peace, 

Firm, united, etc. 



KEY 21 

Behold the chief who now commands, 
Once more to serve his country, stands — 
The rock on which the storm will beat. 
The rock on which the storm will beat ; 
But, armed in virtue firm and true, 5 

His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you. 
When hope was sinking in dismay. 
And glooms obscured Columbia's day, 
His steady mind, from changes free, 
Resolved on death or liberty. 10 

Firm, united, let us be. 
Rallying round our Liberty ; 
As a band of brothers joined. 
Peace and safety we shall find. 

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY 

1 779-1843 

Key was born in Frederick County, Maryland, and was educated at 
St. John's College, Annapolis. When the British bombarded Fort 
McHenry at Baltimore, in 1814, Key was with the British fleet, having 
gone there to secure the release of a friend who was held prisoner. All 
night he watched the battle. When he saw the American flag still 
afloat the next morning, he sat down and wrote The Star-Spangled 
Banner, one of the most popular of American patriotic songs. 

A volume of Key's poems was published at Baltimore in 1859, with 
an introductory letter by his brother-in-law, Chief Justice Taney. The 
volume consists largely of occasional pieces that were not originally 
intended for publication. They add little or nothing to his fame. The 
greater part of his life was given to the practice of law in Washington. 

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 

O SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 15 

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming — 



22 EARLY PERIOD 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the 
fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming ! 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there ; 
O ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 5 

O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? 

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep. 

As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? 10 

Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 

In full glory reflected now shines on the stream ; 

'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave 

O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! 

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 15 

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no more ? 

Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and slave 

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave ; 20 

And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 

O ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 

Between their loved homes and the war's desolation ! 
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land 25 

Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just. 
And this be our motto, — " hi God is our trust: " 
And the star-spangled banner in triugiph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. 30 



MOORE 23 

CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE 

1779-1863 

The author of A Visit from St. Nicholas, a household favorite, was 
born in New York city and educated at Columbia College. For many 
years he held a professorship in the General Theological Seminary of 
the Episcopal Church. A collection of his verse was published in 
1844, but he is remembered now almost solely by this Christmas piece, 
with its brisk movement and cheery temper. It was written for his chil- 
dren at Christmas, and was sent without his knowledge to a newspaper, 
where it appeared anonymously. 

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS 

'TwAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house 

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; 

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, 

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there ; 

The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 5 

While visions of sugar plums danced in their heads ; 

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap. 

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap. 

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. 10 

Away to the window I flew like a flash. 

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow 

Gave the luster of midday to objects below, 

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, 15 

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, 

With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name ; 20 

" Now, Dasher ' now, Dancer ! now, Prancer and Vixen ! 



24 EARLY PERIOD 

On, Comet ! on, Cupid I on, Donder and Blitzen ! 

To the top of the porch ! to the' top of the wall ! 

Now dash away ! dash away ! dash away all ! " 

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, 

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky ; 5 

So up to the house top the coursers they flew. 

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too. 

And then, in a twinkhng, I heard on the roof 

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 10 

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot. 

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot ; 

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back. 

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. 15 

His eyes — how they twinkled ! his dimples how merry ! 

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry 1 

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow. 

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow ; 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 20 

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath ; 

He had a broad face and a little round belly. 

That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly. 

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, 

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; 25 

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, 

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread ; 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work. 

And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk, 

And laying his finger aside of his nose, 30 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose ; 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 

^^ Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good nights 35 



PIERPONT 25 

JOHN PIERPONT 

1785-1866 

PiERPONT was born at Litchfield, Connecticut. After being graduated 
from Yale, he was successively a teacher, a business man, a lawyer, and 
finally a Unitarian minister. For twenty-six years he was pastor of the 
Hollis Street Church, Boston, and was an ardent supporter of the aboli- 
tion movement — a movement very active in the neighborhood of his 
church. At the age of seventy-six he volunteered as a chaplain in the 
Civil War, but his age and bodily infirmities prevented much active 
service. He was appointed to' a clerkship in the government service at 
Washington, a position which he held until his death. 

THE EXILE AT REST 

His falchion flashed along the Nile ; 

His hosts he led through Alpine snows ; 
O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while, 

His eagle flag unrolled, — and froze. 

Here sleeps he now, alone ; — not one 5 

Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, 

Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son, 
Hath ever seen or sought his grave. 

Here sleeps he now, alone ; — the star, 

That led him on from crown to crown, 10 

Hath sunk ; — the nations from afar 

Gazed, as it faded and went down. 

He sleeps alone ; — the mountain cloud 

That night hangs round him, and the breath 

Of morning scatters, is the shroud 15 

That wraps his martial form in death. 



26 EARLY PERIOD 

High is his couch ; — the ocean flood 

Far, far below by storms is curled, 
As round him heaved, while high he stood, 

A stormy and inconstant world. 

Hark ! Comes there from the Pyramids, 5 

And from Siberia's waste of snow. 
And Europe's fields, a voice that bids 

The world be awed to mourn him? — No; — 

The only, the perpetual dirge. 

That's heard here, is the sea bird's cry, 10 

The mournful murmur of the surge, 

The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. | 

WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS 

Stand ! the ground 's your own, my braves ! 

Will ye give it up to slaves ? 

Will ye look for greener graves ? 15 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What's the mercy despots feel ? 
Hear it in that battle peal ! 
Read it on yon bristling steel ! 

Ask it, — ye who will, 20 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
Will ye to your homes retire ? 
Look behind you ! they're a-fire ! 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it ! — From the vale 25 

On they come ! — And will ye quail ? — - 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be ! 



WOODWORTII 27 

In the God of battles trust ! 

Die we may, — and die we must ; 

But, O, where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well, 
As where Heaven its dews shall shed ,5 

On the martyred patriot's bed, 
And the rocks shall raise their head, 

Of his deeds to tell ! 

THE BALLOT 

A WEAPON that comes down as still 

As snowflakes fall upon the sod ; I'o 

But executes a freeman's will. 

As hghtning does the will of God. 

SAMUEL WOODWORTH 

1 785-1842 

The author of The Old Oaken Bucket was born at Scituate, Massa- 
chusetts, and died in New York city. The poem given here is the only 
one of a volume of verse which is now remembered. He wrote several 
operettas and dramatic pieces, but these have long since been forgotten. 
He was associated with Willis and others in the editorship of the New 
York Mirror, a journal of considerable literary note in its day. 

THE BUCKET 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them to view ! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood, 15 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell. 
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it. 

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well — 20 



28 EARLY PERIOD 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, 

For often at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 5 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well — 10 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it. 

As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 15 

The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved habitation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well— 20 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well ! 

RICHARD HENRY WILDE 

1 789-1847 

Many of the poets of this early period — notably Freneau, Key, and 
Wilde — were men of affairs in the main, whose verse making occupied 
only their leisure hours. Nearly all of them a,re remembered to-day by 
only one or two poems. The bulk of their writings has gone the way 
of most occasional verse. It was, in most cases, hastily put together, 
and was lacking in depth and sincerity of feeling, as well as in grace of 
form. 



WILDE 29 

Wilde was born at Dublin, Ireland. When he was a mere boy his 
family came to America and settled in Baltimore. After the death of 
his father, he removed with his mother to Georgia, where he studied 
law and entered politics. He served several terms as a member of 
Congress from his adopted state. After traveling abroad for several 
years, he settled in New Orleans and devoted the remainder of his life 
to the successful study and practice of the civil law. 

MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE 

My life is like the summer rose, 

That opens to the morning sky, 
But, ere the shades of evening close, 

Is scattered on the ground — to die ! 
Yet on the rose's humble bed 5 

The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if she wept the waste to see — 
But none shall weep a tear for me ! 

My life is like the autumn leaf 

That trembles in the moon's pale ray : 10 

Its hold is frail — its date is brief, 
■ Restless — and soon to pass away ! 
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
The parent tree will mourn its shade, 
The winds bewail the leafless tree — 13 

But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 

My life is like the prints, which feet 

Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; 
Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 

All trace will vanish from the sand ; 20 

Yet, as if grieving to efface 
All vestige of the human race, 
On that lone shore loud moans the sea — » 
But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 



30 EARLY PERIOD 

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE 

1791-1852 

The life of John Howard Payne is of unusual interest. He was born 
in New York city and entered Union College. He left college early, 
however, and took to the stage. He won popularity as an actor both 
in America and in England. He also wrote plays and operas. The 
song Home, Sweet Hotne, first appeared in his opera, Clari, the Maid 
of Milan, which was produced' at Covent Garden Theater, London, in 
1823. He died at Tunis, Africa, where he was serving as United States 
consul. In 1883, at the expense of the late Mr. W. W. Corcoran, the 
philanthropist, his remains were removed to Washington. 

HOME, SWEET HOME! 

Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home ; 

A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, 

Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! 5 

There's no place like Home ! there's no place like Home ! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ; 

O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! 

The birds singing gayly, that came at my call, — 

Give me them, — and the peace of mind, dearer than all ! 10 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home ! 
There's no place like Home ! there's no place like Home ! 

How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile, 

And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile ! 

Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam, 15 

But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home ! 

Home ! Home ! sweet, sweet Home ! 
There's no place like Home ! there's no place like Home ! 



HALLECK 3 1 

To thee I'll return, overburdened with care ; 
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there ; 
No more from that cottage again will I roam ; 
Be it ever so humble, there's no place hke home. 

Home ! Home ! sweet, sweet Home ! 5 

There's no place hke Home ! there's no place like Home ! 

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 

1795-1867 

Halleck, the friend and co-laborer of Drake, was born at Guilford, 
Connecticut, but his active life was spent in New York. He first en- 
tered a banking house, and later was for many years confidential clerk 
to John Jacob Astor. On the death of Mr. Astor, he received a pen- 
sion which enabled him to live in dignified retirement. He spent the 
last eighteen years of his life in his native town, where he died. 

Halleck's literary work began with The Croaker Pieces, which he, 
together with Drake, contributed to the ^Evening Post. These verses 
contained witty and satirical thrusts at local celebrities. He also pub- 
lished Fanny, a satire on New York life. His best-known short poems 
are Alnwick Castle, an imitation of Sir Walter Scott ; the spirited Marco 
Bozzaris, so dear to the heart of the schoolboy declaimer ; and lines on 
the death of Joseph Rodman Drake, which have directness and sin- 
cerity. His later years of ease and retirement seem, in a literary way, 
to have been almost entirely barren. " Halleck long survived," says 
Mr. Woodberry, " a fine outside of a man, with the ghost of a dead poet 
stalking about in him, a curious experience to those who met him, with 
his old-fashioned courtesy and the wonder of his unliterary survival." 
It has been suggested by the same critic that " trade sterilized " him ; but 
it seems more than probable that Halleck said all that he had to say. 

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 

Green be the turf above thee. 

Friend of my better days ! 
None knew thee but to love thee, 

Nor named thee but to praise. 10 



32 EARLY PERIOD 

Tears fell when thou wert dying, 

From eyes unused to weep, 
And long, where thou art lying. 

Will tears the cold turf steep. 

When hearts, whose truth was proven, 5 

Like thine, are laid in earth, 
There should a wreath be woven 

To tell the world their worth ; 

And I who woke each morrow 

To clasp thy hand in mine, 10 

Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 

Whose weal and woe were thine ; 

It should be mine to braid it 

Around thy faded brow, 
But I've in vain essayed it, 15 

And feel I cannot now. 

While memory bids me weep thee, 
Nor thoughts nor words are free, — 

The grief is fixed too deeply 

That mourns a man like thee. 20 

MARCO BOZZARIS 

At midnight, in his guarded tent, 

The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 

Should tremble at his power : 
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore as 

The trophies of a conqueror ; 

In dreams his song of triumph heard ; 
Then wore his monarch's signet Hng : 
Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king ; 
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 30 

As Eden's garden bird. 



HALLECK 33 

At midnight, in the forest shades, 

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, 
True as the steel of their tried blades. 

Heroes in heart and hand. 
There had the Persian's thousands stood, 5 

There had the glad earth drunk their blood 

On old Platsea's day ; 
And now there breathed that haunted air 
The sons of sires who conquered there, 
With arm to strike and soul to dare, 10 

As quick, as far as they. 

An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; 

That bright dream was his last ; 
He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
"To arms ! they come ! the Greek ! the Greek ! " 15 
He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke. 
And shout, and groan, and saber stroke, 

And death shots falHng thick and fast 
As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; 
And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 20 

Bozzaris cheer his band : 
" Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; 
Strike — for your altars and your fires ; 
Strike — for the green graves of your sires ; 

God — and your native land ! " 25 

They fought — like brave men, long and well ; 

They piled that ground with Moslem slain. 
They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 

Bleeding at every vein. 
His few surviving comrades saw 30 

His smile when rang their proud hurrah. 

And the red field was won ; 
Then saw in death his eyelids close 
long's am. poems — 3 



34 EARLY PERIOD 

Calmly, as to a night's repose, 
Like flowers at set of sun. 

Come to the bridal-chamber. Death ! 

Come to the mother's, when she feels, 
For the first time, her first-born's breath ; 5 

Come when the blessed seals 
That close the pestilence are broke, 
And crowded cities wail its stroke ; 
Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; 10 

Come when the heart beats high and warm 

With banquet song, and dance, and wine ; 
And thou art terrible — the tear. 
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, 
And all we know, or dream, or fear 15 

Of agony, are thine. 

But to the hero, when his sword 

Has won the battle for the free. 
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; 
And in its hollow tones are heard 20 

The thanks of millions yet to be. 
Come, when his task of fame is wrought — 
Come, with her laurel leaf, blood-bought — 

Come in her crowning hour — and then 
Thy sunken eye's unearthly hght 25 

To him is welcome as the sight 

Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; 
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
Of brother in a foreign land ; 

Thy summons welcome as the' cry 30 

That told the Indian isles were nigh 

To the world-seeking Genoese, 
When the land wind, from woods of palm, 



HALLECK 35 

And orange groves, and fields of balm, 
Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 

Bozzaris ! with the storied brave 

Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, 5 

Even in her own proud clime. 
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume 
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree 
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 10 

The heartless luxury of the tomb ; 
But she remembers thee as one 
Long loved and for a season gone ; 
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, 
Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; 15 

For thee she rings the birthday bells ; 
Of thee her babe's first lisping tells ; 
For thine her evening prayer is said 
At palace couch and cottage bed ; 

Her soldier, closing with the foe, 20 

Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; 
His pHghted maiden, when she fears 
For him the joy of her young years, 
Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears ; 

And she, the mother of thy boys, 25 

Though in her eye and faded cheek 
Is read the grief she will not speak, 

The memory of her buried joys. 
And even she who gave thee birth. 
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, 30 

Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; 
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's : 
One of the few, the immortal names. 

That were not born to die. 



36 EARLY PERIOD 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 

1795-1820 

Drake was a New Yorker, born and bred. After his first early 
struggles with poverty, life seemed to open up with shining prospects. 
He was graduated in medicine, and then traveled abroad for a year or 
two. He was happily married and he was rising in his profession. He 
was, Halleck said, the handsomest man in New York. Buoyant spirits 
brought nim many friends, and he was beginning to make a name for 
himself in letters. But he was smitten with consumption, and died at 
the age of twenty-five. 

Drake began to write verse at a very early age ; but it was The 
Croaker Pieces, which he and Halleck wrote together, that first brought 
him into literary notice. They first appeared anonymously in the 
Evening Post, which later on William Cullen Bryant was to edit so 
long and so brilliantly. These witty verses, with their sly thrusts at 
well-known men and women of the day, soon became the talk of the 
town, and created much curiosity as to their authorship. 

The longest poem that Drake wrote was The Culprit Fay. It is a 
conventional tale of some tiny fairies that were supposed to haunt the 
Hudson River. Drake's purpose in writing the poem was to try to 
prove to his friends that American streams lent themselves to poetic 
treatment as readily as the streams of the Old World. It was reserved 
for Irving, however, at a later day, to show more conclusively in his 
Sketch Book than Drake did in The Culprit Fay that the spirit of 
romance really does hover about the Hudson. But Drake's poem 
contains some pleasing fancies, more or less gracefully told. 

To-day the best-remembered poem of Drake's is The American Flag. 
This may be pitched in too high a key to please the most rigid taste, 
but its patriotic appeal will probably be lasting. 

THE AMERICAN FLAG 

When Freedom from her mountain height 

Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there. 



DRAKE 37 

She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 

The milky baldric of the skies, 

And striped its pure celestial white 

With streakings of the morning light ; 

Then from his mansion in the sun 5 

She called her eagle bearer down, 

And gave into his mighty hand 

The symbol of her chosen land. 

Majestic monarch of the cloud. 

Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 10 

To hear the tempest trumpings loud 
And see the hghtning lances driven, 

When strive the warriors of the storm. 
And rolls the thunder drum of heaven. 
Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given 15 

To guard the banner of the free, 
To hover in the sulphur smoke. 
To ward away the battle stroke, 
And bid its blendings shine afar, 
Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 20 

The harbingers of victory ! 

Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly, 

The sign of hope and triumph high, 

When speaks the signal trumpet tone. 

And the long line comes gleaming on. 25 

Ere yet the life blood, warm and wet. 

Has dimmed the ghstening bayonet, 

Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 

To where thy sky-born glories burn, 

And, as his springing steps advance, 30 

Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 

And when the cannon mouthings loud 

Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 



38 EARLY PERIOD 

And gory sabers rise and fall 

Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 

Then shall thy meteor glances glow, 
And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 

Each gallant arm that strikes below 
That lovely messenger of death. 



"-5 



Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 

Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 

When death, careering on the gale. 

Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, lo 

And frighted waves rush wildly back 

Before the broadside's reeling rack, 

Each dying wanderer of the sea 

Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 

And smile to see thy splendors fly 15 

In triumph o'er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart's hope and home ! 

By angel hands to valor given ; 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 

And all thy hues were born in heaven. 20 

Forever float that standard sheet ! 

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet. 

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us? 

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY 

1802-1828 

PiNKNEY was born in London while his father, William Pinkney of 
Baltimore, a lawyer and public speaker of distinction, was United States 
minister to Great Britain. On his return to America, he was put to 
school in Baltimore, but later entered the navy as a midshipman. He 
resigned from the navy to enter upon the practice of the law, but his 



PINKNEY 39 

health failed and he died in Baltimore at the age of twenty-six. Dur- 
ing his lifetime he published a tiny volume of verses which are notable 
for their ease and grace. Those given in this collection do not suifer 
greatly by comparison with similar verses by the English Cavalier poets. 
They were highly praised by Poe. 

A HEALTH 

I FILL this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon ; 
To whom the better elements 5 

And kindly stars have given 
A form so fair, that, like the air, 

'Tis less of earth than heaven. 

Her every tone is music's own, 

Like those of morning birds, lo 

And something more than melody 

Dwells ever in her words ; 
The coinage of her heart are they, 

And from her lips each flows 
As one may see the burdened bee 15 

Forth issue from the rose. 

Affections are as thoughts to her. 

The measures of her hours ; 
Her feelings have the fragrancy, 

The freshness of young flowers ; 
And lovely passions, changing oft, 20 

So fill her, she appears 
The image of themselves by turns, — 

The idol of past years ! 

Of her bright face one glance will trace 

A picture on the brain, 25 



40 EARLY PERIOD 

And of her voice in echoing hearts 
A sound must long remain ; 

But memory, such as mine of her, 
So very much endears, 

When death is nigh my latest sigh 
Will not be life's, but hers. 

I fill this cup to one made up 

Of loveliness alone, 
A woman, of her gentle sex 

The seeming paragon — 
Her health ! and would on earth there stood 

Some more of such a frame. 
That life rnight be all poetry, 

And weariness a name. 



A SERENADE 

Look out upon the stars, my love, 15 

And shame them with thine eyes. 
On which, than on the lights above, 

There hang more destinies. 
Night's beauty is the harmony 

Of blending shades and light ; 20 

Then, lady, up, — look out, and be 

A sister to the night ! 

Sleep not ! thine image wakes for aye 

Within my watching breast : 
Sleep not ! from her soft sleep should fly 25 

Who robs all hearts of rest. 
Nay, lady, from thy slumbers break, 

And make this darkness gay 
With looks, whose brightness well might make 

Of darker nights a day. 30 



MORRIS 41 

GEORGE POPE MORRIS 

1802-1864 

Morris lived a long and busy life, writing much in both prose and 
verse, but his name is kept alive by a single poem. Woodman, 
spare that Tree may seem a slender thread on which to hang a literary 
reputation, but the appeal which it makes, though not very strong, 
is sincere and universal. The cutting down of a tree, however insig- 
nificant, invariably awakens lively interest and often provokes heated 
discussion. 

Morris was born in Philadelphia, but spent the greater part of his 
life in New York city, where he died. His life work was journalism. 
For nearly twenty years he edited the Mirror, which he and Samuel 
Woodworth, author of The Old Oaken Bucket, had founded together 
in 1823. He and N. P. Willis also founded the Home Jourtial. 
These two journals published much of the current literature of the day, 
and the editors were no inconsiderable literary figures in their time. 

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE! 

Woodman, spare that tree ! 

Touch not a single bough ! 
In youth it sheltered me, 

x^nd I'll protect it now. 
'Twas my forefather's hand 5 

That placed it near his cot ; 
There, woodman, let it stand. 

Thy ax shall harm it not. 

That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 10 

Are spread o'er land and sea — 

And wouldst thou hew it down? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
Oh, spare that aged oak 15 

Now towering to the skies ! 



42 EARLY PERIOD 

When but an idle boy, 

I sought its grateful shade ; 
In all their gushing joy 

Here, too, my sisters played. 
My mother kissed me here ; 5 

My father pressed my hand — 
Forgive this foolish tear, 

But let that old oak stand. 

My heartstrings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend ! 10 

Here shall the wild bird sing, 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 
While I've a hand to save, 15 

Thy ax shall harm it not. 



ALBERT GORTON GREENE 

1802-1868 

Judge Greene was born at Providence, Rhode Island, and was 
graduated from Brown University. While in college he wrote a popu- 
lar ballad, Old Grimes. He studied law and was for many years judge 
of the Municipal Court at Providence. His interests, however, were 
not wholly centered in the law. He drew up the school bill of Rhode 
Island, and for fourteen years was president of the Rhode Island His- 
torical Society. He was also the founder of the Harris Collection of 
A?nerica?i Poetry now in the possession of Brown University. His 
own poems were never published in a collected form. 

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET 

O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, 
Where in his last strong agony a dying warrior lay, 



GREENE 43 

The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent 
By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent. 

" They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er, 
That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more ; 
They come, and to my beard they dare to tell me now, that I, 5 
Their own hege lord and master born, — that I, ha ! ha ! must die. 

"And what is death? I've dared him oft before the Paynim 

spear, — 
Think ye he's entered at my gate, has come to seek me here ? 
I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the light was raging 

hot, — 
I'll try his might — I'll brave his power ; defy, and fear him not. 10 

" Ho ! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin, — 
Bid each retainer arm with speed, — call every vassal in. 
Up with my banner on the wall, — the banquet board prepare ; 
Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there ! " 

An hundred hands were busy then — the banquet forth was spread — 
And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread, 16 

While from the rich, dark tracery along the vaulted wall, 
Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old 
Gothic hall. 

Fast hurrying through the outer gate the mailed retainers poured, 
On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the 
board. 20 

While at its head, within his dark, carved oaken chair of state. 
Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate. 

" Fill every beaker up, my men, pour forth the cheering wine ; 
There's life and strength in every drop, — thanksgiving to the vine ! 
Are ye all there, my vassals true? — mine eyes are waxing dim ; 25 
Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim. 



44 EARLY PERIOD 

" You're there, but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword 
And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board ; 
I hear it faintly : — Louder yet ! — What clogs my heavy breath? 
Up all, and shout for Rudiger, ' Defiance unto Death ! ' " 

Bowl rang to bowl — steel clanged to steel — and rose a deafening 
cry 5 

That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high : — 
" Ho ! cravens, do ye fear him ? — Slaves, traitors ! have ye flown? 
Ho ! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone ! 

" But I defy him : — let him come ! " Down rang the massy cup, 
While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing halfway up ; lo 
And with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head, 
There in his dark, carved oaken chair Old Rudiger sat, — dead. 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 

I 806-1 867 

Born in Portland, Maine, educated at Andover and Yale, Willis 
began his literary career in Boston, where his father had founded the 
Youth's Companion. Later he removed to New York, where he spent 
the remainder of his life, and became the most prominent man of letters 
of his day in America. 

His literary reputation has slowly faded since his death. Much of 
his work — stories, verses, and letters of travel — lies buried in the 
files of the Mirror and the Home Journal. It was distinguished by 
cleverness rather than by power or depth. But no man ever under- 
stood the taste of his own age better than did Willis. He fed this 
taste with sentimental stories, cleverly turned verses, and letters of 
travel full of personal gossip. His personal qualities, apart from his 
literary style, also served to increase his power over the men and women 
of his time. He was tall, handsome, elegant in dress, joyous in spirit, 
and both amiable in manner and honorable in conduct. He had, too, 
that deferential attitude towards women which has always been popu- 



WILLIS 45 

lar in America. These qualities made him a social favorite, in Europe 
as well as in America. So dazzling, indeed, were his personal charms 
that one Englishman spoke of him as a young man likely to attain the 
presidency, and a Boston merchant said he guessed that Goethe was 
the N. P. Willis of Germany. 

Much of Willis's contemporary fame must, therefore, be set down to 
the magic of his personality. Readers of to-day, untouched by this 
subtle wand, easily detect in his literary work much that is false in 
taste, shallow in feeling, and superficial in thought. A few of his best 
poems, however, seem likely to survive, and his heroic struggle in the 
waning days of his strength to support his family in comfort will always 
appeal to men of spirit and honor. 



UNSEEN SPIRITS 

The shadows lay along Broadway, 

'Twas near the twilight tide, 
And slowly there a lady fair 

Was walking in her pride. 
Along walked she ; but, viewlessly, 5 

Walked spirits at her side. 

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet 

And Honor charmed the air ; 
And all astir looked kind on her, 

And called her good as fair, 10 

For all God ever gave to her 

She kept with chary care. 

She kept with care her beauties rare 

From lovers warm and true, 
For her heart was cold to all but gold, 15 

And the rich came not to woo — 
But honored well are charms to sell 

If priests the selling do. 



46 EARLY PERIOD 

Now walking there was one more fair — 

A slight girl, hly pale ; 
And she had unseen company 

To make the spirit quail : 
'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, 5 

And nothing could avail. 

No mercy now can clear her brow 

For this world's peace to pray ; 
For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 

Her woman's heart gave way ! — 10 

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven 

By man is cursed alway ! 

SPRING 

The Spring is here — the delicate-footed May, 

With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers, 

And with it comes a thirst to be away, 15 

In loveher scenes to pass these sweeter hours, 

A feeling like the worm's awakening wings, 

Wild for companionship with swifter things. 

We pass out from the city's feverish hum, 

To find refreshment in the silent woods ; 20 

And nature that is beautiful and dumb. 

Like a cool sleep upon the pulses broods — 

Yet, even there a restless thought will steal, 

To teach the indolent heart it still must feel. 

Strange that the audible stillness of the noon, 25 

The waters tripping with their silver feet, 

The turning to the hght of leaves in June, 

And the light whisper as their edges meet — 

Strange — that they fill not, with their tranquil tone, 

The spirit, walking in their midst alone. 30 



HOFFMAN 47 

There's no contentment in a world like this, 
Save in forgetting the immortal dream ; 
We may not gaze upon the stars of bliss, 
That through the cloud rifts radiantly stream ; 
BirdHke, the prison'd soul will lift its eye 5 

And pine till it is hooded from the sky. 

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN 

I 806-1 884 

Hoffman was born in New York city, studied at Columbia College, 
and practiced law in his native city. His tastes, however, were more 
literary than legal. He was the first editor of the Knickerbocker Maga- 
zine, founded in 1833, which was for thirty years the most conspicuous 
periodical of its kind in the country. It was the forerunner of Harper'^s 
and the Centicry. Among its contributors were Irving, Bryant, Halleck, 
Willis, Boker, Bayard Taylor, and George William Curtis. This group 
of writers formed what is often spoken of as the Knickerbocker School. 

The chief literary work of Hoffman consists of novels and books of 
travel, all now forgotten. His verse is also fading, but it had a lyrical 
quality above that of the verse of most of his contemporaries. 

In 1849 Hoffman's mind was sadly darkened by an insanity which 
kept him in seclusion the last thirty-five years of his life. 

MONTEREY 

We were not many — we who stood 

Before the iron sleet that day — 
Yet many a gallant spirit would 
Give half his years if he then could 10 

Have been with us at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot, it hailed 

In deadly drifts of fiery spray, 
Yet not a single soldier quailed 
When wounded comrades round them wailed 15 

Their dying shout at Monterey. 



48 EARLY PERIOD 

And on — still on our column kept 

Through walls of flame its withering way ; 
Where fell the dead, the living stept, 
Still charging on the guns which swept 
The slippery streets of Monterey. 

The foe himself recoiled aghast, 

When, striking where he strongest lay, 
We swooped his flanking batteries past. 
And braving full their murderous blast, 
Stormed home the towers of Monterey. 

Our banners on those turrets wave. 

And there our evening bugles play ; 
Where orange boughs above their grave 
Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many — we who pressed 

Beside the brave who fell that day; 
But who of us has not confessed 
He'd rather share their warrior rest. 
Than not have been at Monterey? 



SAMUEL FRANCIS SMITH 

1808-1895 

The author of the national hymn of America was born in Boston. 
He was graduated in 1829 from Harvard, w.here Oliver Wendell Holmes 
was his classmate. Three years after graduation he wrote this famous 
hymn. He was a Baptist clergyman, and wrote other hymns, as well 
as books for boys ; but his name would soon be forgotten were it not 
for My Country, His of Thee. 



SMITH 49 

AMERICA 

My country, 'tis of thee, 
Sweet land of liberty, 

Of thee I sing ; 
Land where my fathers died, 
Land of the pilgrims' pride, 5 

From every mountain side 

Let freedom ring. 

My native country, thee, 
Land of the noble free, — 

Thy name I love ; 10 

I love thy rocks and rills. 
Thy woods and templed hills ; 
My heart with rapture thrills 

Like that above. 

Let music swell the breeze, 15 

And ring from all the trees. 

Sweet freedom's song ! 
Let mortal tongues awake, 
Let all that breathe partake. 
Let rocks their silence break, — 20 

The sound prolong. 

Our fathers' God, to Thee, 
Author of liberty. 

To Thee I sing ; 
Long may our land be bright 25 

With freedom's holy hght ; 
Protect us by thy might, 

Great God our King. 



long's am. poems — 4 



50 EARLY PERIOD 

PARK BENJAMIN 

I 809-1 864 

This journalist, lecturer, and poet was born at Demerara, British 
Guiana, and died at New York, where he spent the greater part of his 
life. His sister was married to John Lothrop Motley, the author of 
The Rise of the Dutch Repiiblic. Benjamin edited more than one 
magazine in New York, and also worked on the T?-ibu7ie under Horace 
Greeley. His poems were never collected. Perhaps the best known 
is the one given below. 

THE OLD SEXTON 

Nigh to a grave that was newly made, 

Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade ; 

His work was done, and he paused to wait 

The funeral train at the open gate. 

A relic of bygone days was he, 5 

And his locks were white as the foamy sea ; 

And these words came from his lips so thin : 

" I gather them in, I gather them in. 

" I gather them in ! for man and boy, 

Year after year of grief and joy, 10 

I've builded the houses that lie around. 

In every nook of this burial ground ; 

Mother and daughter, father and son, 

Come to my solitude, one by one : 

But come they strangers or come they kin- — 15 

I gather them in, I gather them in. 

" Many are with me, but still I'm alone, 

I'm king of the dead — and I make my throne 

On a monument slab of marble cold ; 

And my scepter of rule is the spade I hold : 20 



SARGENT 5 1 

Come they from cottage or come they from hall, 
Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all ! 
Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfuUy spin — 
I gather them in, I gather them in. 

" I gather them in, and their final rest 5 

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast ! " 

And the sexton ceased, for the funeral train 

Wound mutely o'er that solemn plain ! 

And I said to my heart, when time is told, 

A mightier voice than that sexton's old 10 

Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din — 

" I gather them in, I gather them in." 



EPES SARGENT 

1813-1880 

Sargent was a considerable figure in his day as editor, novelist, 
dramatist, biographer, and poet. In journalism he saw service on the 
staffs of both the New York Mirror and the Boston Transcript. He 
wrote popular plays, lives of Henry Clay and Benjamin Franklin, several 
works on spiritualism, and a volume of poems called Songs of the Sea. 

He was born at Gloucester, Massachusetts, and died at Boston. 

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 

A LIFE on the ocean wave, 

A home on the rolling deep, 
Where the scattered waters rave, 15 

And the winds their revels keep ! 
Like an eagle caged, I pine 

On this dull, unchanging shore : 
Oh ! give me the flashing brine, 

The spray and the tempest's roar ! 20 



52 EARLY PERIOD 

Once more on the deck I stand 

Of my own swift-gliding craft : 
Set sail ! farewell to the land ! 

The gale follows fair abaft. 
We shoot through the sparkling foam 5 

Like an ocean bird set free ; — 
Like the ocean bird, our home 

We'll find far out on the sea. 

The land is no longer in view, 

The clouds have begun to frown ; 10 

But with a stout vessel and crew. 

We'll say, Let the storm come down ! 
And the song of our hearts shall be. 

While the winds and the waters rave, 
A home on the roUing sea ! 15 

A life on the ocean wave ! 

PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE 

1816-1850 

This writer of graceful verses was born at Martinsburg, Virginia. 
He was educated at Princeton, where he was noted for his love of 
outdoor sports. He was admitted to the bar, but spent most of his 
time in writing verses and chasing foxes on his country estate in 
Virginia. His mind matured early, for he entered Princeton at fifteen 
and wrote for the Knickerbocker Magazine at seventeen. His talents, 
however, were obscured by frail health. He died at the age of thirty- 
four. John Esten Cooke, the novelist, was his younger brother. 

FLORENCE VANE 

I LOVED thee long an& dearly, 

Florence Vane ; 
My Ufe's bright dream and early 

Hath come again ; 20 



COOKE 53 

I renew in my fond vision 

My heart's dear pain, 
My hope, and thy derision, 

Florence Vane. 

The ruin lone and hoary, 5 

The ruin old, 
Where thou didst mark my story, 

At even told, — 
That spot — the hues Elysian 

Of sky and plain — 10 

I treasure in my vision, 

Florence Vane. 

Thou wast lovelier than the roses 

In their prime ; 
Thy voice excelled the closes 15 

Of sweetest rhyme; 
Thy heart was as a river 

Without a main. 
Would I had loved thee never, 

Florence Vane ! 20 

But, fairest, coldest wonder ! 

Thy glorious clay 
Lieth the green sod under, — 

Alas the day ! 
And it boots not to remember 25 

Thy disdain, — 
To quicken love's pale ember, 

Florence Vane. 

The lilies of the valley 

By young graves weep, 30 

The pansies love to dally 

Where maidens sleep ; 



54 EARLY PERIOD 

May their bloom, in beauty vying, 

Never wane 
Where thine earthly part is lying, 

Florence Vane ! 



THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH 

1819-1902 

The life of Dr. English was unusually active and varied. He practiced 
both law and medicine at different times ; for a number of years he was 
active in journalism in New York, when he was associated with Willis 
and Poe ; he wrote a novel, made a collection of ballads and fairy 
stories, and from 1891 to 1895 served as a member of Congress, during 
which time he pubHshed a volume of poems. 

Dr. English was born in Philadelphia, and was a graduate of the 
medical school of the University of Pennsylvania. His last years were 
spent in bhndness at Newark, New Jersey, where he died. Through- 
out his long career he was a man of vigor and of striking personality. 

BEN BOLT 

Don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt, — 5 

Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, 
Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile. 

And trembled with fear at your frown? 
In the old church yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, 

In a corner obscure and alone, 10 

They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, 

And Alice lies under the stone. 



Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, 

Which stood at the foot of the hill, 

Together we've lain in the noonday shade, 
And listened to Appleton's mill. 



ENGLISH 55 

The mill wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, 

The rafters have tumbled in. 
And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze 

Has followed the olden din. 

Do you mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, 5 

At the edge of the pathless wood, 
And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, 

Which nigh by the doorstep stood? 
The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, 

The tree you would seek for in vain ; 10 

And where once the lords of the forest waved 

Are grass and the golden grain. 

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, 

With the master so cruel and grim, 
And the shaded nook in the running brook 15 

Where the children went to swim? 
Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, 

The spring of the brook is dry. 
And of all the boys who were schoolmates then 

There are only you and I. 20 

There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, 

They have changed from the old to the new ; 
But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth. 

There never was change in you. 
Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt, 25 

Since first we were friends — yet I hail 
Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, 

Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale. 



MIDDLE PERIOD 
I 

Bryant, Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, Poe, Holmes, and 

Lowell 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

1 794-1878 

The life of Bryant falls into two rather distinct parts — his work as 
a poet, and his career as a journalist and citizen. Much of his best 
poetry was written while he was a resident of Massachusetts, where he 
practiced law with doubtful success, but during the last fifty years of his 
life he edited the New York Evening Post, through which he rendered 
distinguished service to both literature and politics. In his later years 
the venerable poet and publicist was often spoken of as the first citizen 
of the Republic. 

The outward facts of Bryant's life may be set down briefly. He was 
born at Cummington, in the western part of Massachusetts. His father 
was a physician, who named his son for the once famous Scotch pro- 
fessor of medicine, William Cullen. Orchis mother's side the poet was 
descended from John and Priscilla Alden. Young Bryant was pre- 
cocious. His first poem was published in a newspaper when he was 
thirteen years of age. A year later he published The Embargo, a satire 
on President Jefferson, which caused much comment in Boston, where 
it first appeared. The sentiment of this poem appealed to the preju- 
dices of the violent Federalists of that time, but the most notable thing 
about it was its unusual correctness of rhype and meter. Indeed, care- 
ful workmanship always marked Bryant's prose and verse. In 1810 he 
entered Williams College as a sophomore. At the end of one year he 
left with an honorable dismissal, intending to enter Yale. Lack of 
money, however, put a stop to his college career. About this time, 

56 



BRYANT 57 

when only seventeen years of age, he wrote Thanatopsis, his best- 
known poem, and during his long career he never produced anything 
better. When it was published in the North American Revieiv, it won 
him instant recognition as a poet. A few months later his justly popu- 
lar lines To a Waterfowl appeared in the same magazine. In 1821 he 
read before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard a poem called 
The Ages. It was in this year that he was happily married to Miss 
Frances Fairchild at Great Barrington, Massachusetts. He now de- 
termined to give up the law and to devote his life to letters. In 1825 
he was persuaded by friends to move to New York, where for a time he 
helped to edit an unsuccessful magazine. Then came his connection 
with the Evening Post, which marked a sharp turn in his life. 

The second important period of Bryant's life had now begun. In 
his hands the Evening Post became a pattern of the purest and most 
virile English, a literary critic of power and discrimination, and a fear- 
less, independent, and high-minded upholder of all that is best in the 
civic affairs of the Republic. Bryant wrote poetry during these fifty 
years of toil as an editor, but it confirmed rather than increased his 
reputation as a poet. Either his springs had run dry or his energies 
had been diverted into another channel. As the years went by he was 
thought of less as a poet and more as a commanding personality in 
public affairs. To those who saw him in his daily round he seemed a 
dignified, venerable, and almost majestic figure. Secure in fame and 
fortune, steadfastly devoted to the greatest good to the greatest number, 
patiently and modestly laborious, gravely gentle in all the relations of 
life, he walked among men as the noblest embodiment of democratic 
citizenship. His last" public act was in keeping with his character and 
career. He delivered the oration in 1878 at the unveiUng of a statue in 
Central Park to Mazzini, the Italian patriot, and suffered a sunstroke 
which proved fatal. 

" Happily," says George William Curtis, "we may believe that he was 
sensible of no decay. ... He was hale, erect, and strong to the last. 
All his life a lover of nature and an advocate of liberty, he stood under 
the trees in the beautiful park on a bright June day, and paid an elo- 
quent tribute to a devoted servant of liberty in another land. And 
while his words yet lingered in the ears of those who heard him, he 
passed from human sight." 

As a poet, Bryant holds a place in American letters which is high 
and secure. He has correctness of form, restraint, delicacy, simplicity, 



58 MIDDLE PERIOD 

luminousness, and he rises at times almost to majesty. What he lacked 
was the heat which kindles the emotions and fires the imagination. 
The reason for this lay in the man himself. '• He was reserved, and 
in no sense magnetic or responsive," says one who knew him well. 
'' There was something in his manner of the New England hills among 
which he was born, — a little stern and bleak and dry, although suf- 
fused with the tender and scentless splendor of the white laurel." 

THANATOPSIS 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 

A various language ; for his gayer hours 

She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 5 

Into his darker musings, with a mild 

And healing sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 10 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. 

Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart ; — 

Go forth, under the open sky, and list 

To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 15 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 

Comes a still voice : — 

Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, 20 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again. 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 






BRYANT 59 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix forever with the elements, 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 5 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 10 

The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 15 

The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, 
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 20 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 25 

That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness. 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there; 30 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reigned there alone. 
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 



6o MIDDLE PERIOD 

In silence from the living, and no friend fl 

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 

When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 

Plod on, and each one as before will chase 5 1 

His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave ij 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 

And make their bed with thee. As the long train 

Of ages glides away, the sons of men — 

The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes 10 

In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 

The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man — 

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 

By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 15 

The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, "where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 20 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

THE FLOOD OF YEARS 

A MIGHTY Hand, from an exhaustless Urn, 

Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years, 25 

Among the nations. How the rushing waves 

Bear all before them '! On their foremost edge. 

And there alone, is Life. The Present there 

Tosses and foams, and fills the air with roar 

Of mingled noises. There are they who toil, 30 

And they who strive, and they who feast, and they 



BRYANT 6 I 

Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy swain — 

Woodman and delver with the spade — is there, 

And busy artisan beside his bench, 

And palhd student with his written roll. 

A moment on the mounting billow seen, 5 

The floods sweep over them and they are gone. 

There groups of revelers whose brows are twined 

With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, 

And as they raise their flowing cups and touch 

The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath lo 

The waves and disappear. I hear the jar 

Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth 

From cannon, where the advancing billow sends 

Up to the sight long files of armed men. 

That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. 15 

The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid. 

Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. 

Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chief 

Sinks with his followers ; the head that wears 

The imperial diadem goes down beside 20 

The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek. 

A funeral train — the torrent sweeps away 

Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed 

Of one who dies men gather sorrowing, 

And women weep aloud ; the flood rolls on ; 25 

The wai-l is stifled and the sobbing group 

Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout. 

The cry of an applauding multitude. 

Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields 

The living mass as if he were its soul ! 30 

The waters choke the shout and all is still. 

Lo ! next a kneeling crowd, and one who spreads 

The hands in prayer — the engulfing wave o'ertakes 

And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields 

The chisel, and the stricken marble grows 35 



62 MIDDLE PERIOD 

To beauty ; at his easel, eager-eyed, 

A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch 

Gathers upon his canvas, and hfe glows ; 

A poet, as he paces to and fro. 

Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they ride 5 

The advancing billow, till its tossing crest 

Strikes them and flings them under, while their tasks 

Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile 

On her young babe that smiles to her again ; 

The torrent wrests it from her arms ; she shrieks 10 

And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. 

A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray 

To glistening pearls ; two lovers, hand in hand. 

Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look 

Into each other's eyes. The rushing flood 15 

Flings them apart : the youth goes down ; the maid 

With hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes, 

Waits for the next high wave to follow him. 

An aged man succeeds ; his bending form 

Sinks slowly. Mingling with the sullen stream 20 

Gleam the white locks, and then are seen no more. 

Lo ! wider grows the stream — a sealike flood 
Saps earth's walled cities ; massive palaces 
Crumble before it ; fortresses and towers 
Dissolved in the swift waters ; populous realms 25 

Swept by the torrent see their ancient tribes 
Engulfed and lost ; their very languages 
Stifled, and never to be uttered more. 

I pause and turn my eyes, and looking back 
Where that tumultuous flood has been, I see 30 

The silent ocean of the Past, a waste 
Of waters weltering over graves, 'its shores 
Strewn with the wreck of fleets where mast and hull 
Drop away pieciemeal ; battlemented walls 
Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand 35 



i 



BRYANT 63 

Unroofed, forsaken by the worshipper. 
There He memorial stones, whence time has gnawed 
The graven legends, thrones of kings o'erturned, 
The broken altars of forgotten gods, 

, Foundations of old cities and long streets 5 

Where never fall of human foot is heard, 
On all the desolate pavement. I behold 
Dim glimmerings of lost jewels, far within 
The sleeping waters, diamond, sardonyx. 
Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, 10 

Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows 
That long ago were dust ; and all around 
Strewn on the surface of that silent sea 
Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks 
Shorn from dear brows by loving hands, and scrolls 15 

O'erwritten, haply with fond words of love 
And vows of friendship, and fair pages flung 
Fresh from the printer's engine. There they He 
A moment, and then sink away from sight. 

I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes, 20 

For I behold in every one of these 
A blighted hope, a separate history 
Of human sorrows, telling of dear ties 
Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness 
Dissolved in air, and happy days too brief 25 

That sorrowfully ended, and I think 
How painfully must the poor heart have beat 
In bosoms without number, as the blow 
Was struck that slew their hope and broke their peace. 

Sadly I turn and look before, where yet 30 

The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist 
Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope, 
Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers. 
Or wander among rainbows, fading soon 
And reappearing, haply giving place 35 



\ 



64 MIDDLE PERIOD 

To forms of grisly aspect such as Fear 

Shapes from the idle air — where serpents lift 

The head to strike, and skeletons stretch forth 

The bony arm in menace. Further on 

A belt of darkness seems to bar the way 1 

Long, low, and distant, where the Life to come 

Touches the Life that is. The Flood of Years 

Rolls toward it near and nearer. It must pass 

That dismal barrier. What is there beyond ? 

Hear what the wise and good have said. Beyond ic 

That belt of darkness, still the Years roll on 

More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. 

They gather up again and softly bear 

All the sweet lives that late were overwhelmed 

And lost to sight, all that in them was good, 15 I 

Noble, and truly great, and worthy of love — 

The lives' of infants and ingenuous youths, 

Sages and saintly women who have made 

Their households happy ; all are raised and borne 

By that great current in its onward sweep, 20 

Wandering and rippling with caressing waves 

Around green islands with the breath 

Of flowers that never wither. So they pass 

From stage to stage along the shining course 

Of that bright river, broadening like a sea. 25 

As its smooth eddies curl along their way 

They bring old friends together ; hands are clasped 

In joy unspeakable ; the mother's arms 

Again are folded round the child she loved 

And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, 30 1 

Or but remembered to make sweet the hour 

That overpays them ; wounded hearts that bled 

Or broke are healed forever. In the room 

Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall be 

A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw 35 



BRYANT 65 

The heart, and never shall a tender tie 
Be broken ; in whose reign the eternal Change 
That waits on growth and action shall proceed 
With everlasting Concord hand in hand. 

THE BATTLEFIELD 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 5 

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 
And fiery hearts and armed hands 

Encountered in the battle cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life blood of her brave — 10 

Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet. 

Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still ; 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird. 
And talk of children on the hill, 15 

And bell of wandering kine are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain ; 
Men start not at the battle cry. 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 20 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 

Who minglest in the harder strife 
For truths which men receive not now. 

Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare ! lingering long 25 

Through weary day and weary year, . 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear. 

long's am. poems — 5 • 



66 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 

And blench not at thy chosen lot. 
The timid good may stand aloof, 

The sage may frown — yet faint thou not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 5 

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 
For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 

The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ; 

The eternal years of God are hers ; 10 

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 

And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust. 
When they who helped thee flee in fear, 

Die full of hope and manly trust, 15 

Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 

Another hand the standard wave. 
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 

The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 20 

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, 

Of waihng winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. 

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, 25 

And from the wood top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang 

and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? 



BRYANT e'J 

Alas ! they are all in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 

The wind flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 5 

And the brier rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; 
But on the hill the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood, 
And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on 

men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, 

and glen. lo 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come. 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees 

are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he 

bore, 15 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died. 

The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. 

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, 

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief : 20 

Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours. 

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 

THE EVENING WIND 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day. 

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 25 

Thou hast been out upon the_deep at play. 



68 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, 
And swelhng the white sail. I welcome thee 
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! 

Nor I alone ; a thousand bosoms round 5 

Inhale thee in the fullness of delight ; 
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 

Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, 

Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. 10 

Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, 
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! 

Go, rock the little wood bird in his nest. 

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse 

The wide old wood from his majestic rest, 15 

Summoning from the innumerable boughs 

The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast ; 
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 

The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. 

And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. 20 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; 

And they who stand about the sick man's bed 25 

Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 

And softly part^his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go — but the circle of eternal change, 

Which is the life of Nature, shall restore, 30 

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range. 

Thee to thy birthplacQ of the deep once more j 



BRYANT 69 

Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange, 

Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore ; 
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 5 

And colored with the heaven's own blue. 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night, 

Thou comest not when violets lean 

O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 10 

Or columbines, in purple dressed, 

Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 

Thou waitest late and com'st alone, 

When woods are bare and birds are flown. 

And frost and shortening days portend 15 

The aged year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky. 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 20 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as I depart. 

TO A WATERFOWL 

Whither, midst falling dew, 25 

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 

Thy solitary way ? 



yo MIDDLE PERIOD 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 5 

Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — lo 

The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, -15 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest. 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend. 

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 20 

Thou'rt gone ! the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He, who, from zone to zone, 25 

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight. 
In the long way that I must tread alone 

Will lead my steps aright. 



BRYANT 71 

AMERICA 

Oh mother of a mighty race, 
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace ! 
The elder dames, thy haughty peers, 
Admire and hate thy blooming years. 

With words of shame 5 

And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 

That tints thy morning hills with red ; 

Thy step — the wild deer's rusthng feet 

Within thy woods are not more fleet ; 10 

Thy hopeful eye 
Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 

Aye, let them rail — those haughty ones, 

While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. 

They do not know how loved thou art, 15 

How many a fond and fearless heart 

Would rise to throw 
Its life between thee and the foe. 

They know not, in their hate and pride, 

What virtues with thy children bide ; 20 

How true, how good, thy graceful maids 

Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades ; 

What generous men 
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen ; — 

What cordial welcomes greet the guest 25 

By thy lone rivers of the West ; 
How faith is kept, and truth revered, 
And man is loved, and God is feared. 

In woodland homes, 
And where the ocean border foams. 30 



72 MIDDLE PERIOD 

There's freedom at thy gates and rest 
For Earth's down-trodden and opprest, 
A shelter for the hunted head, 
For the starved laborer toil and bread. 

Power, at thy bounds. 
Stops and calls back his baffled hounds. 

Oh, fair young mother ! on thy brow 
Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
Deep in the brightness of the skies 
The thronging years in glory rise, 
And, as they fleet, v 

Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 

Thine eye, with every coming hour, 
Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower ; 
And when thy sisters, elder born, 
Would brand thy name with words of scorn, 

Before thine eye, 
Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

1803-1882 

The life of Emerson, although marked by few real hardships, 
was not so unruffled as that of Longfellow, Holmes, or Lowell. He 
was born at Boston, not far from the spot where Benjamin Franklin was 
born nearly a century earlier, and spent most of his life at Concord, 
where he died. His father was minister of the First Church at Boston. 
His ancestors, most of whom were ministers, had been settled in New 
England for five generations. He thus belonged to what Dr. Holmes 
called the " Brahmin caste " of New England, and inherited its tradi- 
tions of plain living and high thinking, as well as of resolute daring. 
His grandfather was minister of the church at Concord when the 



EMERSON 73 

Revolution broke out, and urged his parishioners on to the fight at 
Concord Bridge in 1775, — the fight which Ralph Waldo Emerson 
afterwards celebrated in song. The same fighting quality was shown 
by Emerson, not in arms, but in a moral and intellectual way. 

Emerson was eight years old when his father died. He entered the 
Latin School and spent a studious youth. Puritan influences were still 
strong, and it is said that he rarely played, and that he never owned a 
sled. His patriotism, however, was on the alert. While a schoolboy 
during the War of 1812, when a rumor came that the British were to 
send a fleet to blockade Boston Harbor, he went with the rest of the 
boys to build earthworks to protect the city. He also wrote boyish 
verses celebrating the victories of the American navy. 

He entered Harvard in 181 7. As his widowed mother found it 
necessary to take in boarders in order to educate her sons, Emerson 
got the appointment at Harvard of " President's Freshman," by which 
he got his lodgings free by carrying official messages. He also helped 
to pay his board by serving at the college commons as waiter. While 
at college Emerson came under the influence of such teachers as Ed- 
ward Everett and George Ticknor. He was not distinguished as a 
scholar, but he read widely, and was appointed class poet at graduation. 

For several years after leaving college he assisted his brother in con- 
ducting in Boston " a young ladies' seminary," earning money to pay 
his debts and to help his mother, and at the same time studying 
divinity. In 1829 he was appointed assistant pastor of the Second 
Church in BostoVi, and shortly became the regular minister. During 
this pastorate he married Miss Ellen Tucker, who died a few months 
afterward. Not long after the death of his wife, he severed his pastoral 
connection with his church, owing to a difference of opinion with his 
parishioners as to the importance of celebrating the Lord's Supper. 

Emerson continued to preach irregularly for some years, but he never 
again held a charge. His loss to the church was a distinct gain to 
literature. In 1832 he sailed for Europe, and visited Italy, France, 
and Great Britain. In England he met Carlyle, Wordsworth, and 
Coleridge. With Carlyle he formed a lasting friendship. 

Upon his return from Europe, Emerson settled in Concord, a village 
near Boston, where he remained for the rest of his life. In 1835 he 
married Miss Lidian Jackson, with whom for nearly half a century he 
lived happily. At Concord he farmed, he thought, and he wrote ; he was 
also a good citizen and neighbor. By inheritance he was an aristocrat. 



74 MIDDLE PERIOD 

He had, however, exquisitely fine democratic ways. In his bearing 
there was never the slightest assumption of superiority. He was kindly, 
just, affable, but with a touch of reticence, and he bore the hard knocks 
of the world with such smiling serenity that people often thought him 
self-centered, and at times insolent. But this apparent self-sufficiency 
was really self-mastery. 

Not long after Emerson settled at Concord, he published his first 
book. Nature, and soon afterwards delivered a notable oration on The 
American Scholar before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Harvard. In 
this oration he urged American scholars to be self-reliant, and to break 
away from European influences. Dr. Holmes declared this oration 
to be "our intellectual Declaration of Independence." Lowell, then 
a senior in college, wrote of the event afterwards : " What crowded 
and breathless aisles, what windows clustering with eager heads, what 
enthusiasm of approval, what grim silence of foregone dissent ! " 

After Emerson had published Nature and had delivered the Phi 
Beta Kappa oration, he was fairly launched as a man of letters. 
Throughout his long life he worked brilliantly in prose and verse, and 
he was successful on the lecture platform. His complete works consist 
of eleven volumes, ten in prose and one in verse. His prose consists 
mostly of essays, but he wrote two long volumes, Representative Men 
and English Traits. His essays cover a wide range of thought They 
discuss manners, morals, love, solitude, and almost everything which 
bears upon human conduct. The gospel of self-reliance is preached in 
no uncertain tone ; also the gospel of individualism. • Be yourself, and 
not an imitator ; rely upon yourself, and not upon others ; aim high, 
and work hard, and be cheerful. " Hitch your waggon to a star," he 
said, and he did it himself; but he never let the weeds choke his corn, 
or failed to keep a comfortable balance in the bank. It is this sane 
blending of ideality and shrewd common sense that makes Emerson so 
stimulating a force. 

Emerson's one volume of poetry, in spite of its shortcomings, seems 
likely to live long. In verse as in prose he was not a workman who 
polished his wares. Matter seemed to him more worth while than 
manner. It is to be regretted that his, verse lacks smoothness and 
sensuous charm, and that the element of human passion is weak. It 
displays, however, a profound love of nature, an abiding patriotism, and 
sudden turns of thought which quicken the imagination, invigorate the 
spirit, and live in the memory. 



EMERSON 75 



CONCORD HYMN 

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, APRIL 1 9, 

1836 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood. 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept ; 5 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone ; lo 

That memory may their deed redeem, 
When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children free, 

Bid Time and Nature gently spare 15 

The shaft we raise to them and thee. 



THE PROBLEM 

I LIKE a church ; I like a cowl ; 

I love a prophet of the soul ; 

And on my heart monastic aisles 

Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles : 

Yet not for all his faith can see 

Would I that cowled churchman be. 



^6 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Why should the vest on him allure, 
Which I could not on me endure? 

Not from vain or shallow thought 

His awful Jove young Phidias brought ; 

Never from lips of cunning fell 5 

The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 

Out from the heart of nature rolled 

The burdens of the Bible old; 

The litanies of nations came, 

Like the volcano's tongue of flame, lo 

Up from the burning core below, — 

The canticles of love and woe : 

The hand that rounded Peter's dome 

And groined the aisles of Christian Rome 

Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 15 

Himself from God he could not free ; 

He builded better than he knew ; 

The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

Knowst thou what wove yon wood bird's nest 

Of leaves and feathers from her breast ? 20 

Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, 

Painting with morn each annual cell ? 

Or how the sacred pine tree adds 

To her old leaves new myriads ? 

Such and so grew these holy piles, 25 

Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 

Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, 

As the best gem upon her zone, 

And Morning opes with haste her lids 

To gaze upon the Pyramids ; 30 

O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, 

As on its friends, with kindred eye ; 

For out of Thought's interior sphere 



EMERSON 77 

These wonders rose to upper air ; 

And Nature gladly gave them place, 

Adopted them into her race, 

And granted them an equal date 

With Andes and with Ararat. 5 

These temples grew as grows the grass 

Art might obey, but not surpass. 

The passive Master lent his hand 

To the vast soul that o'er him planned ; 

And the same power that reared the shrine lo 

Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 

Ever the fiery Pentecost 

Girds with one flame the countless host, 

Trances the heart through chanting choirs. 

And through the priest the mind inspires. 15 

The word unto the prophet spoken 

Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 

The word by seers or sibyls told, 

In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, 

Still floats upon the morning wind, 20 

Still whispers to the willing mind. 

One accent of the Holy Ghost 

The heedless world hath never lost. 

I know what say the fathers wise, — 

The Book itself before me hes, 25 

Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 

And he who blent both in his line, 

The younger Golden Lips or mines, 

Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. 

His words are music in my ear, 30 

I see his cowled portrait dear ; 

And yet, for all his faith could see, 

I would not the good bishop be. 



yS MIDDLE PERIOD 

EACH AND ALL 

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 

Of thee from the hill top looking down ; 

The heifer that lows in the upland farm, 

Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; 

The sexton, tolhng his bell at noon, 5 

Deems not that great Napoleon 

Stops his horse, and Usts with delight. 

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height ; 

Nor knowest thou what argument 

Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. lo 

All are needed by each one ; 

Nothing is fair or good alone. 

I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, 

Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; 

I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; 15 

He sings the song, but it cheers not now, 

For I did not bring home the river and sky ; 

He sang to my ear, — they sang to my eye. 

The delicate shells lay on the shore ; 

The bubbles of the latest wave 20 

Fresh pearls to their enamel gave. 

And the bellowing of the savage sea 

Greeted their safe escape to me. 

I wiped away the weeds and foam, 

I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; 25 

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things 

Had left their beauty on the shore 

With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. 

The lover watched his graceful maid. 

As mid the virgin train she strayed, 30 

Nor knew her beauty's best attire 

Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 

At last she came to his hermjtage. 



EMERSON 79 

Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage ; 

The gay enchantment was undone, 

A gentle wife, but fairy none. 

Then I said, " I covet truth ; 

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat ; 5 

I leave it behind with the games of youth : " 

As I spoke, beneath my feet 

The ground pine curled its pretty wreath, 

Running over the club moss burs ; 

I inhaled the violet's breath ; lo 

Around me stood the oaks and firs ; 

Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground ; 

Over me soared the eternal sky. 

Full of light and of deity ; 

Again I saw, again I heard, iS 

The rolling river, the morning bird ; 

Beauty through my senses stole ; 

I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 

DAYS 

Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, 

Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, 20 

And marching single in an endless file. 

Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. 

To each they offer gifts after his will. 

Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all. 

I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp, 25 

Forgot my morning wishes, hastily 

Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day 

Turned and departed silent. I, too late, 

Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. 



8o MIDDLE PERIOD 



FORBEARANCE 



Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? 

Loved the wood rose, and left it on its stalk? 

At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse ? 

Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? 

And loved so well a high behavior, 5 

In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained. 

Nobility more nobly to repay? 

Oh, be my friend, and teach me to be thine ! 

THE HUMBLE-BEE 

Burly, dozing humble-bee. 

Where thou art is clime for me. 10 

Let them sail for Porto Rique, 

Far-off heats through seas to seek ; 

I will follow thee alone, 

Thou animated torrid zone ! 

Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 15 

Let me chase thy waving lines ; 

Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 

Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Insect lover of the sun, 

Joy of thy dominion ! 20 

Sailor of the atmosphere ; 

Swimmer through the waves of air ; 

Voyager of light and noon ; 

Epicurean of June ; 

Wait, I prithee, till I come 25 

Within earshot of thy hum, — 

All without is martyrdom. 

When the south wind, in May days, 
With a net of shining haze 



EMERSON 8 1 

Silvers the horizon wall, 

And with softness touching all, 

Tints the human countenance 

With the color of romance. 

And infusing subtle heats, 5 

Turns the sod to violets, 

Thou, in sunny solitudes. 

Rover of the underwoods, 

The green silence dost displace 

With thy mellow, breezy bass. lo 

Hot midsummer's petted crone, 

Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 

Tells of countless sunny hours, 

Long days, and solid banks of flowers, 

Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 15 

In Indian wildernesses found ; 

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. 

Firmest cheer, and birdhke pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 

Hath my insect never seen ; 20 

But violets and bilberry bells. 

Maple-sap and daffodels, 

Grass with green flag half-mast high, 

Succory to match the sky. 

Columbine with horn of honey, 25 

Scented fern and agrimony. 

Clover, catchfly, adder's tongue 

And brier roses, dwelt among ; 

All beside was unknown waste, 

All was picture as he passed. 30 

Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breeched philosopher 
long's am. poems — 6 



82 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Seeing only what is fair, 

Sipping only what is sweet, 

Thou dost mock at fate and care, 

Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 

When the fierce northwestern blast 5 

Cools sea and land so far and fast, 

Thou already slumberest deep ; 

Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; 

Want and woe, which torture us, 

Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 10 

THE SNOW-STORM 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 

Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, 

Seems nowhere to alight : the whited air 

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, 

And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. 15 

The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet 

Delayed, all friends shut out, the house mates sit 

Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed 

In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come, see the north wind's masonry. 20 

Out of an unseen quarry evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof 
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. 
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 25 

So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; 
A swanlike form invests the hidden thorn ; 
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 30 

Mauger the farmer's sighs ; and at the gate 



EMERSON 83 

A tapering turret overtops the work. 

And when his hours are numbered, and the world 

Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 

Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 

To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 5 

Built in an age, the mad wind's night work, 

The frolic architecture of the snow. 

THE RHODORA 

ON BEING ASKED WHENCE IS THE FLOWER 

In May, when sea winds pierced our sohtudes, 

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 10 

To please the desert and the sluggish brook. 

The purple petals, fallen in the pool, 

Made the black water with their beauty gay ; 

Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool. 

And court the flower that cheapens his array. 15 

Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why 

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky. 

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, 

Then Beauty is its own excuse for being : 

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose ! 20 

I never .thought to ask, I never knew : 

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose 

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you. 

GOOD-BY, PROUD WORLD! 

GooD-BV, proud world ! I'm going home : 

Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine. 25 

Long through the weary crowds I roam ; 

A river ark on the ocean brine. 

Long I've been tossed Hke the driven foam ; 

But now, proud world ! I'm going home. 



84 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Good-by to Flattery's fawning face ; 

To Grandeur with his wise grimace ; 

To upstart Wealth's averted eye ; 

To supple Office, low and high ; 

To crowded halls, to court and street ; 

To frozen hearts and hasting feet ; 

To those who go, and those who come ; 

Good-by, proud world ! I'm going home. 

I'm going to my own hearthstone. 
Bosomed in yon green hills alone, — 
A secret nook in a pleasant land. 
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned ; 
Where arches green, the livelong day, 
Echo the blackbird's roundelay, 
And vulgar feet have never trod 
A spot that is sacred to thought and God. 

Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, 
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome ; 
And when I am stretched beneath the pines, 
Where the evening star so holy shines, 
I laugh at the lore and pride of man. 
At the sophist schools and the learned clan ; 
For what are they all, in their high conceit, 
When man in the bush with God may meet? 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

1807-1882 

All of the greater poets of America during the Middle Period were 
born in Massachusetts except Longfellow, who was born at Portland, 
Maine, His father was a lawyer of prominence who had once been a 



LONGFELLOW 85 

member of Congress. On his mother's side, he was, like Bryant, 
descended from John and Priscilla Alden. There was also fighting 
blood in the family. His mother's father was a general in the Revolu- 
tion, and his uncle, for whom he was named, was in the navy, and was 
killed at Tripoli. 

The first book which made a strong impression on Longfellow as a 
boy was Irving's Sketch-Book, and he read it, as he says, " with ever- 
increasing wonder and delight, spellbound by its pleasant humour, its 
melancholy tenderness, its atmosphere of reverie." 

Longfellow was sent to college at Bowdoin in Maine, where he was 
graduated, with Hawthorne as a classmate, in 1825. Another fellow- 
student was Franklin Pierce, who afterwards became President of the 
United States. In college Longfellow was noted for both high char- 
acter and scholarly attainments. After graduation he spent four years 
in Germany, France, Italy, and Spain, familiarizing himself with the 
languages and literatures of those countries. On his return in 1829 he 
was appointed professor of modern languages at Bowdoin. In 1831 
he married Miss Mary Potter, who survived only a few years. In 1834 
he again went abroad for several months to study, having been called 
to Harvard to fill the Smith professorship of modern languages. He 
began his duties at Harvard in 1836, and Cambridge became his home for 
the remainder of his life. He lived in the old Craigie House, which was 
once Washington's headquarters. It was at Harvard that he won dis- 
tinction both as a teacher and as a man of letters. It was during these 
years, too, that he married Miss Frances Appleton, with whom he lived in 
the greatest happiness for many years until her tragic death. Her dress 
caught fire and she was burned to death before her husband could put 
out the flames. He himself was so badly burned that he was unable to 
attend her funeral. But, for the most part, these years at Cambridge were 
happy years. Surrounded by his growing family and by devoted friends, 
secure in fortune, and with a widening fame, his lot was fortunate 
beyond that which falls to most men. When, finally, his class-room 
duties began to grow irksome, he resigned the Smith professorship in 
1854 to James Russell Lowell, and devoted the remainder of his life to 
purely literary work. As a citizen and as a neighbor, his popularity 
was as great as it was among the great world of his readers. His life 
was so stainless, and his temper so kindly, that, in his last years, his 
benign and gracious presence fell upon the community almost like a 
benediction. He died rather suddenly at the age of seventy-five, and 



S6 MIDDLE PERIOD 

was buried during a March snowstorm in Mount Auburn cemetery, 
overlooking the Charles River, in Cambridge. It was at his funeral 
that Emerson, old and feeble, contracted a cold which led to his death 
a few days later. 

Longfellow's literary productiveness extended over a rather wide field. 
His three prose romances — Ouire-Me?', //yperwn, and Kavanagh — 
are graceful, dreamy, and sentimental, but they do not show the power 
of narration which Longfellow displays in his longer poems. Chief of 
these longer poems are The Courtship of Miles Standish, a romance 
of early colonial days at Plymouth ; Evangeline, a pastoral idyl of Aca- 
dian life in Canada ; and Hiawatha, a tale in which he follows Freneau 
and Cooper in making the red man a romantic figure. He also made 
many graceful translations from European languages. But, after all, 
Longfellow's fame seems to rest most securely upon his lyrics and bal- 
lads. He knew the art of telling a story in verse effectively, while his 
lyrics — such, for instance, as The Bridge and The Day Is Done — 
have gone straight to the hearts and minds of thousands. It has been 
said of Longfellow that he lacked strong feeling, and also the flamelike 
imaginative power which belongs to very great poets ; and this is true. 
But he has so many other poetic gifts that his fame seems reasonably 
sure to endure. He has unerring good taste, which has so happily been 
called the conscience of the mind. He has, too, grace and lucidity of 
phrase, the power to express rhythmically the entire range of gentle 
sentiment, warm human sympathy, and a lively though not powerful 
imagination. His very great popularity as a poet, both in America and 
in England — a popularity which began over half a century ago and 
which continues to hold — bears witness to effective and unusual artistic 
powers. 

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR 

" Speak ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! 
Who, with thy hollow breast 
Still in rude armor drest, 

Comest to daunt me i 
Wrapt not in Eastern balms, 5 

But with thy fleshless palms 
Stretched, as if asking alms, 

Why dost thou haunt me ? " 



LONGFELLOW 8^ 

Then from those cavernous eyes 
Pale flashes seemed to rise, 
As when the Northern skies 

Gleam in December ; 
And, like the water's flow 5 

Under December's snow. 
Came a dull voice of woe 

From the heart's chamber, 

" I was a Viking old ! 

My deeds, though manifold, 10 

No Skald in song has told, 

No Saga taught thee ! 
Take heed that in thy verse 
Thou dost the tale rehearse. 
Else dread a dead man's curse ; 15 

For this I sought thee. 

" Far in the Northern Land, 
By the wild Baltic's strand, 
I, with my childish hand, 

Tamed the gerfalcon ; 20 

And, with my skates fast bound, 
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound 
That the poor whimpering hound 
Trembled to walk on. 

" Oft to his frozen lair 25 

Tracked I the grisly bear, 
While from my path the hare 

Fled like a shadow ; 
Oft through the forest dark 
Followed the were-wolf's bark, 30 

Until the soaring lark 

Sang from the meadow. 



MIDDLE PERIOD 

" But when I older grew, 
Joining a corsair's crew, 
O'er the dark sea I flew 

With the marauders. • 

Wild was the life we led ; 5 

Many the souls that sped, 
Many the hearts that bled, 

By our stern orders. 

" Many a wassail-bout 

Wore the long Winter out ; 10 

Often our midnight shout 

Set the cocks crowing, 
As we the Berserk's tale 
Measured in cups of ale, 
Draining the oaken pail 15 

Filled to o'erflowing. 

" Once as I told in glee 
Tales of the stormy sea, 
Soft eyes did gaze on me. 

Burning yet tender ; 20 

And as the white stars shine 
On the dark Norway pine, 
On that dark heart of mine 

Fell their soft splendor. 

" I wooed the blue-eyed maid, 25 

Yielding, yet half afraid, 
And in the forest's shade 

Our vows were plighted. 
Under its loosened vest 

Fluttered her little breast, 30 

Like birds within their nest 

By the hawk frighted. 



LONGFELLOW 89 

" Bright in her father's hall 
Shields gleamed upon the wall, 
Loud sang the minstrels all, 

Chanting his glory ; 
When of old Hildebrand 5 

I asked his daughter's hand, 
Mute did the minstrels stand 

To hear my story. 

" While the brown ale he quaffed, 

Loud then the champion laughed, 10 

And as the wind gusts waft 

The sea foam brightly, 
So the loud laugh of scorn, 
Out of those Hps unshorn, 
From the deep drinking horn 15 

Blew the foam lightly. 

" She was a Prince's child, 

I but a Viking wild. 

And though she blushed and smiled, 

I was discarded ! 20 

Should not the dove so' white 
Follow the sea mew's flight? 
Why did they leave that night 

Her nest unguarded ? 

" Scarce had I put to sea, 25 

Bearing the maid with me, — 
Fairest of all was she 

Among the Norsemen ! — 
When on the white sea strand, 
Waving his armed hand, 30 

Saw we old Hildebrand, 

With twenty horsemen. 



90 MIDDLE PERIOD 

" Then launched they to the blast, 
Bent like a reed each mast, 
Yet we were gaining fast. 

When the wind failed us ; 
And with a sudden flaw 5 

Came round the gusty Skaw, 
So that our foe we saw 

Laugh as he hailed us. 

" And as to catch the gale 

Round veered the flapping sail, 10 

* Death ! ' was the helmsman's hail, 

' Death without quarter ! ' 
Midships with iron keel 
Struck we her ribs of steel ; 
Down her black hulk did reel 15 

Through the black water ! 

" As with his wings aslant. 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 

With his prey laden, 20 

So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane, 

Bore I the maiden. 

" Three weeks we westward bore, • 25 

And when the storm was o'er. 
Cloudlike we saw the shore 

Stretching to leeward ; 
There for my lady's bower 

Built I the lofty tower, 30 

Which, to this very hour. 

Stands looking seaward. 



LONGFELLOW 9 1 

" There lived we many years ; 
Time dried the maiden's tears ; 
She had forgot her fears, 

She was a mother ; 
Death closed her mild blue eyes ; 5 

Under that tower she lies ; 
Ne'er shall the sun arise 

On such another. *^^, 

" Still grew my bosom then, 

Still as a stagnant fen ! 10 

Hateful to me were men, 

The sunlight hateful ! 
In the vast forest here, 
Clad in my warlike gear. 
Fell I upon my spear, 15 

Oh, death was grateful ! 

" Thus, seamed with many scars, 
Bursting these prison bars, 
Up to its native stars 

My soul ascended ! 20 

There from the flowing bowl 
Deep drinks the warrior's soul. 
Skoal! to the Northland ! skoal /'^ 

Thus the tale ended. 

THE CUMBERLAND 

At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 25 

On board of the Cumberland^ sloop-of-war ; 
And at times from the fortress across the bay 
The alarum of drums swept past, 
Or a bugle blast 
From the camp on the shore. 30 



92 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Then far away to the south uprose 

A little feather of snow-white smoke, 
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
Was steadily steering its course 
To try the force 5 

Of our ribs of oak. 

Down upon us heavily runs, 

Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns. 

And leaps the terrible death, lo 

With fiery breath, 
From each open port. 

We are not idle, but send her straight 

Defiance back in a full broadside ! 
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, ■ 15 

Rebounds our heavier hail 
From each iron scale 
Of the monster's hide. 

"Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries. 

In his arrogant old plantation strain. 20 

" Never ! " our gallant Morris replies ; 
" It is better to sink than to yield ! " 
And the whole air pealed 
With the cheers of our men. 

Then, like a kraken huge and black, 25 

She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! 
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack. 
With a sudden shudder of death. 
And the cannon's breath * 
For her dying gasp. 30 

Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, 
Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. 



LONGFELLOW 93 

Lord, how beautiful was Thy day ! 
Every waft of the air 
Was a whisper of prayer, 
Or a dirge for the dead. 

Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! 5 

Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ; 
Ho ! brave land ! with hearts hke these, 
Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 
Shall be one again. 
And without a seam ! 10 

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea ; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter. 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 15 

Her cheeks Hke the dawn of day, 
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds. 

That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 20 

And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old sailor. 

Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 
" I pray thee, put into yonder port, 25 

For I fear a hurricane. 

" Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 
And to-night no moon we see ! " 



94 MIDDLE PERIOD 

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 
And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and colder blew the wind, 
A gale from the Northeast, 
, The snow fell hissing in the brine, 5 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. lo 

" Come hither ! come hither ! my httle daughter, 

And do not tremble so ; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 15 

Against the stinging blast ; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

" O father ! I hear the church bells ring. 

Oh, say, what may it be? " 20 

" 'Tis a fog bell on a rock-bound coast ! " — 
And he steered for the open sea. 

" O father ! I hear the sound of guns, 

Oh, say, what may it be? " 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 25 

In such an angry sea ! ' ' 

" O father ! I see the gleaming Hght, 

Oh, say, what may it be? " 
But the father answered never a word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 30 



LONGFELLOW 95 

Lashed to the hehu, all stiff and stark, 

With his face turned to the skies, 
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 5 

That saved she might be ; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 

On the Lake of Gahlee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and snow, 10 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land ; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf 15 

On the rocks and the hard sea sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck. 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 20 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool. 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 25 

With the masts went by the board ; 
Like a vessel of glass, she strove and sank. 

Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 



96 MIDDLE PERIOD 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast 5 

The salt tears in her eyes ; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed, 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow ! 10 

Christ save us all from a death like this. 

On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 

The village smithy stands; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 15 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 20 

His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night, 25 

You can hear his bellows blow ; 
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 

With measured beat and slow. 



LONGFELLOW 97 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 5 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff" from a threshing floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church. 

And sits among his boys ; 10 

He hears the parson pray and preach. 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 15 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 20 

Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 

Onward through life he goes ; 
Each morning sees some task begin, 

Each evening sees it close ; 
Something attempted, something done, 25 

Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 

For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
Thus at the flaming forge of life 

Our fortunes must be wrought ; 30 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 

Each burning deed and thought ! 
long's am. poems — 7 



98 MIDDLE PERIOD 

THE BRIDGE 

I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, 
As the clocks were striking the hour, 

And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church tower. 

I saw her bright reflection 5 

In the waters under me, 
Like a golden goblet falling 

And sinking into the sea. 

And far in the hazy distance 

Of that lovely night in June, lo 

The blaze of the flaming furnace 

Gleamed redder than the moon. 

Among the long, black rafters 

The wavering shadows lay. 
And the current that came from the ocean 15 

Seemed to lift and bear them away ; 

As, sweeping and eddying through them. 

Rose the belated tide, 
And, streaming into the moonUght, 

The seaweed floated wide. 20 

And like those waters rushing 

Among the woOden piers, 
A flood of thoughts came o'er me 

That filled my eyes with tears. 

How often, oh, how often, 25 

In the days that had gone by, 
I had stood on that bridge at midnight 

And gazed on that wave and sky ! 



LONGFELLOW 99 

How often, oh, how often, 

I had wished that the ebbing tide 
Would bear me away on its bosom 

O'er the ocean wild and wide. 

For my heart was hot and restless, 5 

And my life was full of care, 
And the burden laid upon me 

Seemed greater than I could bear. 

But now it has fallen from me, 

It is buried in the sea ; 10 

And only the sorrow of others 

Throws its shadow over me. 

Yet whenever I cross the river 

On its bridge with wooden piers, 
Like the odor of brine from the ocean 15 

Comes the thought of other years. 

And I think how many thousands 

Of care-encumbered men. 
Each bearing his burden of sorrow, 

Have crossed the bridge since then, 20 

I see the long procession 

Still passing to and fro, 
The young heart hot and restless, 

And the old subdued and slow ! 

And forever and forever, ?5 

As long as the river flows, 
As long as the heart has passions, 

As long as life has woes ; 

The moon and its broken reflection 

And its shadows shall appear, 30 

As the symbol of love in heaven. 

And its wavering image here. 



lOO MIDDLE PERIOD 



THE DAY IS DONE 



The day is done, and the darkness 

Falls from the wings of Night, 
As a feather is wafted downward 

From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the hghts of the village 5 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me 
That my soul cannot resist : 

A feeling of sadness and longing 

That is not akin to pain, • 10 

And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles rain. 

Come, read to me some poem, 

Some simple and heartfelt lay, 
That shall soothe this restless feeling, 15 

And banish the thoughts of day. 

Not from the grand old masters, 

Not from the bards sublime, 
Whose distant footsteps echo 

Through the corridors of Time. 20 

For, like strains of martial music, 

Their mighty thoughts suggest 
Life's endless toil and endeavor ; 

And to-night I long for rest. 

Read from some humbler poet, 25 

Whose songs gushed from his heart. 
As showers from the clouds of summer, 

Or tears from the eyelids start j 



LONGFELLOW lOI 

Who through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in his soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 5 

The restless pulse of care, 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 10 

And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
The beauty of thy voice. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 

And the cares that infest the day 
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, 15 

And as silently steal away. 

MY LOST YOUTH 

Often I think of the beautiful town 

That is seated by the sea; 
Often in thought go up and down 

The pleasant streets of that dear old town, 20 

And my youth comes back to me. 
And a verse of a Lapland song 
Is haunting my memory still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 25 

I can see the shadowy Hnes of its trees, 

And catch, in sudden gleams, 
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, 
And islands that were the Hesperides 

Of all my boyish dreams. 30 



I02 MIDDLE PERIOD 

And the burden of that old song, 
It murmurs and whispers still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the black wharves and the slips, 5 

And the sea-tides tossing free ; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
And the beauty and mystery of the ships, 
And the magic of the sea. 
And the voice of that wayward song 10 

Is singing and saying still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 

And the fort upon the hill ; 15. 

The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar. 
The drum beat repeated o'er and o'er. 
And the bugle wild and shrill. 
And the music of that old song 
Throbs in my memory still : 20 

" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the sea fight far away. 
How it thundered o'er the tide ! 
And the dead captains as they lay 25 

In their graves, o'erlooking the tranquil bay 
Where they in battle died. 

And the sound of that mournful song 
Goes through me with a thrill : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will, 30 

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 



LONGFELLOW IO3 

I can see the breezy dome of groves, 
The shadows of Deering's Woods ; 
And the friendships old and the early loves 
Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves 

In quiet neighborhoods. 5 

And the verse of that sweet old song, 
It flutters and murmurs still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will. 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

I remember the gleams and glooms that dart 10 

Across the schoolboy's brain ; 
The song and the silence in the heart, 
That in part are prophecies, and in part 
Are longings wild and vain. 

And the voice of that fitful song 15 

Sings on, and is never still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

There are things of which I may not speak ; 

There are dreams that cannot die ; 20 

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, 
And bring a pallor into the cheek, 
And a mist before the eye. 

And the words of that fatal song 
Come over me like a chill : 25 

" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

Strange to me now are the forms I meet 

When I visit the dear old town ; 
But the native air is pure and sweet, 30 

'And the trees that o'ershadow each well-known street, 

As they balance up and down, 



I04 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Are singing the beautiful song, 
Are sighing and whispering still : 
"A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, 5 

And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there, 
And among the dreams of the days that were, 
I find my lost youth again. 

And the strange and beautiful song, 10 

The groves are repeating it still : 
" A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts." 

THE POET AND HIS SONGS 

As the birds come in Spring, 

We know not from where ; 15 

As the stars come at evening 

From depths of the air ; 

As the rain comes from the cloud. 
And the brook from the ground ; 

As suddenly, low or loud, 20 

Out of silence a sound ; 

As the grape comes to the vine. 

The fruit to the tree ; 
As the wind comes to the pine. 

And the tide to the sea ; 25 

As come the white sails of ships 
O'er the ocean's verge ; 



LONGFELLOW 105 

As comes the smile to the lips, 
The foam to the surge ; 

So come to the Poet his songs, 

All hitherward blo.vvn 
From the misty realm that belongs 5 

To the vast unknown. 

His, and not his, are the lays 

He sings ; and their fame 
Is his, and not his ; and the praise 

And the pride of a name. 10 

For voices pursue him by day 

And haunt him by night. 
And he listens and needs must obey, 

When the Angel says, " Write ! " 



NATURE 

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, 15 

Leads by the hand her little child to bed. 

Half willing, half reluctant to be led, 

And leave his broken playthings on the floor. 

Still gazing at them through the open door, 

Nor wholly reassured and comforted 20 

By promises of others in their stead, 

Which, though more splendid, may not please him more ; 

So Nature deals with us, and takes away 

Our playthings one by one, and by the hand 

Leads us to rest so gently, that we go 25 

Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, 

Being too full of sleep to understand 

How far the unknown transcends the what we know. 



I06 MIDDLE PERIOD 

HYMN TO THE NIGHT 

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night 

Sweep through her marble halls ! 
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light 

From the celestial walls ! 

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold, soft chimes. 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose ; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before ! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer ! 

Descend with broad-winged flight, 
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, 

The best-beloved Night ! 

IN THE CHURCHYARD AT TARRYTOWN 

Here lies the gentle humorist, who died 
In the bright Indian Summer of his fame ! 
A simple stone, with but a date and name, 
Marks his secluded resting-place beside 



LONGFELLOW IO7 

The river that he loved and glorified. 
Here in the autumn of his days he came, 
But the dry leaves of life were all aflame 
With tints that brightened and were multiplied. 

How sweet a hfe was his ; how sweet a death ! 5 

Living, to wing with mirth the weary hours, 
Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer ; 

Dying, to leave a memory like a breath 

Of summer's fall of sunshine and of showers, 

A grief and gladness in the atmosphere. 10 

THE REPUBLIC 

Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State ! 

Sail on, O Union, strong and great ! 

Humanity with all its fears, 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate ! 15 

We know what Master laid thy keel. 

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope. 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat 20 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

'Tis of the wave and not the rock ; 

'Tis but the flapping of the sail. 

And not a rent made by the gale ! 25 

In spite of rock and tempest's roar. 

In spite of false hghts on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea ! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 30 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



Io8 MIDDLE PERIOD 



DAYBREAK 



A WIND came up out of the sea, 

And said, " O mists, make room for me." 

It hailed the ships, and cried, " Sail on, 
Ye mariners, the night is gone." 

And hurried landward far away, 5 

Crying, "Awake ! it is the day." 

It said unto the forest, " Shout ! 
Hang all your leafy banners out ! " 

It touched the wood bird's folded wing, 

And said, " O bird, awake and sing." lo 

And o'er the farms, " O chanticleer, 
Your clarion blow ; the day is near." 

It whispered to the fields of corn, 

" Bow down, and hail the coming morn." 

It shouted through the belfry tower, 15 

" Awake, O bell ! proclaim the hour." 

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, 
And said, " Not yet ! in quiet lie." 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

1807-1892 

The life of Whittier differed in many respects from the lives of the 
other men most prominent in American letters. He was a Quaker by 
birth and breeding, he did not come of a noteworthy family, he was 
literally a barefoot boy, and he was not college bred. There are many 
resemblances between his life and that of Robert Burns ; and it was 
from Burns that he got his earliest poetic impulse. Both were ardent 



WHITTIER 109 

lovers of nature, and both sang songs of fervent patriotism. They also 
pictured with loving minuteness the life of the lowly. 

Whittier was born on a farm near Haverhill, in Massachusetts. He 
went to the district school in winter, and worked on the farm in summer. 
His father's library contained few books, but a copy of Burns's poems 
fell into the boy's hands, and straightway rhymes began to run through 
his head. When he was seventeen, some of his verses were sent by his 
sister to a newspaper, and they were published in the "Poet's Corner." 
Whittier was working with his father in the field when the postman 
on horseback threw him the paper containing his poem. " His heart 
stood still a moment when he saw his own verses," says a writer. 
" Such a delight as his comes only once in the lifetime of any aspirant 
to literary fame. His father at last called to him to put up the paper 
and keep at work." Two years later an academy was started in Haver- 
hill, and Whittier studied there tv/o terms, supporting himself by book- 
keeping, and by working at a trade which he had learned, — that of 
making slippers. For the next several years he was engaged in jour- 
nalism — first in Boston, and later at Hartford and at Haverhill. In 
his home town he became a man of influence in politics. He was an 
organizer and a campaign manager of no ordinary ability, but his 
methods were always clean. He might have been elected to Congress 
if he had been willing to keep in the background his antislavery 
views, which were then unpopular. But he chose to cast personal 
preferment aside, and to throw himself into a cause which appealed 
strongly to his humanitarian instincts. 

In 1838 his most important newspaper work was undertaken when he 
went to Philadelphia to edit the Pennsylvania Freeman. Through 
the columns of this paper he struck such hard blows at slavery and 
at the upholders of slavery that the printing office was mobbed and 
burned. 

Whittier left Philadelphia in 1840, and settled down at Amesbury, 
not far from his birthplace, where he lived quietly for half a century. 
He never married. The last half of his life was spent mainly in literary 
work. He always adhered to his early religious belief, and his un- 
blemished life was marked by Quakerlike simplicity and serenity. His 
manners, though a trifle shy and reserved, were kindly and gentle. 

Whittier's prose works may, from a literary point of view, be set 
aside without lengthy comment. His prose, like Milton's, was written 
in the spirit of heated controversy, and it lacks the balance and restraint 



no MIDDLE PERIOD 

which invariably accompany all permanent writing. The same may be 
said of much of his antislavery verse. It accomplished its purpose for 
the time, but it does not endure. His poem on Randolph of Roanoke, 
as an instance, has many very noble stanzas, but as a poem it is marred 
by partisan spirit, and by the desire to preach a sermon on the evils 
of slavery. There are a few poems of this class, however, which have 
literary qualities that lift them above the mass. Such poems are The 
Farewell and Laits Deo ! which are included in this collection. 

Whittier's poems of nature show a genuine love of outdoor things, 
and are faithful pictures of New England scenery. The most notable 
is Snow-Boicnd, a delightful and satisfying picture of simple rural life 
in New England. It has picturesqueness and warm human feeling, with 
occasional lines which startle the imagination. 

As a writer of ballads — perhaps the most popular form of literature 
— Whittier takes high rank. Maud Midler, Cassandra Southwick, 
Skipper Ireson''s Ride, and The Pipes at Lucknow show him at his best. 
On account of its rhythmical swing, and because of its dramatic power. 
Skipper Ireson's Ride bids fair to outlive the rest. The poet's simple 
and sincere piety shines out brightest in The Eternal Goodness. Of 
the personal poems, Ichabod is by far the strongest ; it is one of the 
best poems ever written on the fall of greatness. In such poems as 
The Eternal Goodness and Ichabod, Whittier breaks away from the 
fleeting and the local, and makes that effective universal appeal which 
belongs to all enduring literature. 

PROEM 

WRITTEN TO INTRODUCE THE FIRST GENERAL COLLECTION OF HIS 

POEMS 

I LOVE the old melodious lays 
Which softly melt the ages through, 

The songs of Spenser's golden days, 

Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase^ 
Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew. 5 

Yet, vainly in my quiet hours 
To breathe their marvelous notes I try ; 



WHITTIER II I 

I feel them, as the leaves and flowers 
In silence feel the dewy showers, 
And drink with glad, still lips the blessing of the sky. 

The rigor of a frozen clime. 
The harshness of an untaught ear, 

The jarring words of one whose rhyme 

Beat often Labor's hurried time. 
Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here. 

Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace. 
No rounded art the lack supplies ; lo 

Unskilled the subde hnes to trace, 

Or softer shades of Nature's face, 
I view her common forms with unanointed eyes. 

Nor mine the seerhke power to show 
The secrets of the heart and mind ; 15 

To drop the plummet line below 

Our common world of joy and woe, 
A more intense despair or brighter hope to find. 

Yet here at least an earnest sense 
Of human right and weal is shown ; 20 

A hate of tyranny intense. 

And hearty in its vehemence, 
As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own. 

O Freedom ! if to me belong 
Nor mighty Milton's gift divine, 25 

Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song. 

Still with a love as deep and strong 
As theirs, I lay, like them, my best gifts on thy shrine ! 



112 MIDDLE PERIOD 



ICHABOD 



So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn 

Which once he wore ! 
The glory from his gray hairs gone 

Forevermore ! 

Revile him not, the Tempter hath 

A snare for all ; 
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 

Befit his fall ! 

Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, 

When he who might 
Have lighted up and led his age, 

Falls back in night. 

Scorn ! would the angels laugh, to mark 

A bright soul driven. 
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, 

From hope and heaven ! 

Let not the land once proud of him 

Insult him now. 
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim. 

Dishonored brow. 

But let its humbled sons, instead, 

From sea to lake, 
A long lament, as for the dead, 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honored, naught 

Save power remains ; 
A fallen angel's pride of thought, 

Still strong in chains. 



WHITTIER • 113 

All else is gone ; from those great eyes 

The soul has fled : 
When faith is lost, when honor dies, 

The man is dead ! 

Then, pay the reverence of old days 5 

To his dead fame ; 
Walk backward, with averted gaze, 

And hide the shame ! 



THE LOST OCCASION 

Some die too late and some too soon, 

At early morning, heat of noon, 10 

Or the chill evening twilight. Thou, 

Whom the rich heavens did so endow 

With eyes of power and Jove's own brow, 

With all the massive strength that fills 

Thy home-horizon's granite hills, 15 

With rarest gifts of heart and head 

From manliest stock inherited, 

New England's stateUest type of man. 

In port and speech Olympian : 

Whom no one met, at first, but took 20 

A second awed and wondering look ; 

Whose words in simplest homespun clad. 
The Saxon strength of Csedmon's had. 
With power reserved at need to reach 
The Roman forum's loftiest speech, 25 

Sweet with persuasion, eloquent 
In passion, cool in argument, — 
*, * * * * * ** 

Thou, foiled in aim and hope, bereaved 
long's am. poems — 8 



114 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Of old friends, by the new deceived, 

Too soon for us, too soon for thee, 

Beside thy lonely Northern sea. 

Where long and low the marsh lands spread, 

Laid wearily down thy august head. 5 

Thou shouldst have lived to feel below 

Thy feet Disunion's fierce upthrow, — 

The late-sprung mine that underlaid 

Thy sad concessions vainly made. 

Thou shouldst have seen from Sumter's wall 10 

The star flag of the Union fall. 

And armed rebellion pressing on 

The broken lines of Washington ! 

No stronger voice than thine had then 

Called out the utmost might of men, 15 

To make the Union's charter free 

And strengthen law by liberty. 

How had that stern arbitrament 

To thy gray age youth's vigor lent, 

Shaming ambition's paltry prize 20 

Before thy disillusioned eyes ; 

Breaking the spell about thee wound 

Like the green withes that Sampson bound ; 

Redeeming in one effort grand. 

Thyself and thy imperilled land ! 25 

Ah, cruel fate, that closed to thee, 

O sleeper by the Northern sea. 

The gates of opportunity ! 

God fills the gaps of human need. 

Each crisis brings its word a,nd deed. 30 

Wise men and strong we did not lack ; 

But still, with memory turning back. 

In the dark days we thought of thee, 

And thy lone grave beside the sea. 



WHITTIER 1 1 5 

Above that grave the east winds blow 

And from the marsh lands drifting slow 

The sea fog comes, with evermore 

The wave wash of a lonely shore, 

And sea bird's melancholy cry, j 

As Nature fain would typify 

The sadness of a closing scene, 

The loss of that which should have been. 

But, where thy native mountains bare 

Their foreheads to diviner air, lo 

Fit emblem of enduring fame, 

One lofty summit keeps thy name. 

For thee the cosmic forces did 

The rearing of that pyramid. 

The prescient ages shaping with 15 

Fire, flood, and frost thy monolith. 

Sunrise and sunset lay thereon 

With hands of light their benison, 

The stars of midnight pause to set 

Their jewels in its coronet. 20 

THE FAREWELL 

OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLD INTO 
SOUTHERN BONDAGE 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 

To the rice swamp dank and lone. 
Where the slave whip ceaseless swings. 
Where the noisome insect stings, 
Where the fever demon strews 25 

Poison with the falling dews. 
Where the sickly sunbeams glare 
Through the hot and misty air ; 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 

To the rice swamp dank and lone, 3° 



Il6 MIDDLE PERIOD 

From Virginia's hills and waters ; 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice swamp dank and lone. 

There no mother's' eye is near them, 5 

There no mother's ear can hear them ; 

Never, when the torturing lash 

Seams their back with many a gash. 

Shall a mother's kindness bless them. 

Or a mother's arms caress them. 10 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice swamp dank and lone. 
From Virginia's hills and waters ; 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 15 

To the rice swamp dank and lone. 

O, when weary, sad, and slow, 

From the fields at night they go, 

Faint with toil, and racked with pain. 

To their cheerless homes again, 20 

There no brother's voice shall greet them ; 

There no father's welcome meet them. 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice swamp dank and lone. 
From Virginia's hills and waters ; 25 

Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice swamp dan.k and lone. 

From the tree whose shadow lay 

On their childhood's place of play;- 30 

From the cool spring where they drank j 

Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank j 



WHITTIER 117 

From the solemn house of prayer, 
And the holy counsels there ; 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 

To the rice swamp dank and lone, 

From Virginia's hills and waters ; 5 

Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 

To the rice swamp dank and lone ; 
Toiling through the weary day, 

And at night the spoiler's prey. 10 

Oh, that they had earlier died, 
Sleeping calmly, side by side, 
Where the tyrant's power is o'er, 
And the fetter galls no more ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 15 

To the rice swamp dank and lone, 

From Virginia's hills and waters ; 

Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 

To the rice swamp dank and lone. 20 

By the holy love He beareth ; 
By the bruised reed He spareth ; 
Oh, may He, to whom alone 
All their cruel wrongs are known, 
Still their hope and refuge prove, 25 

With a more than mother's love. 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 

To the rice swamp dank and lone, 

From Virginia's hills and waters ; 

Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 30 



Il8 MIDDLE PERIOD 

LAUS DEO ! 

ON HEARING THE BELLS RING ON THE PASSAGE OF THE CONSTITU- 
TIONAL AMENDMENT ABOLISHING SLAVERY 

It is done ! 

Clang of bell and roar of gun 
Send the tidings up and down. 

How the belfries rock and reel ! 

How the great guns, peal on peal, 5 

Fling the joy from town to town ! 

Ring, O bells ! 

Every stroke exulting tells 
Of the burial hour of crime. 

Loud and long, that all may hear, 10 

. Ring for every listening ear 
Of Eternity and Time ! 

Let us kneel : 

God's own voice is in that peal, 
And this spot is holy ground. 15 

Lord, forgive us ! What are we, 

That our eyes this glory see, 
That our ears have heard the sound ! 

For the Lord 

On the whirlwind is abroad ; 20 

In the earthquake he has spoken ; 

He has smitten with his thunder 

The iron walls asunder. 
And the gates of brass are- broken ! 

Loud and long 25 

Lift the old exulting song ; 
Sing with Miriam by the sea 



WHITTIER 1 19 

He has cast the mighty down ; 
Horse and rider sink and drown ; 
" He hath triumphed gloriously ! " 

Did we dare, 

In our agony of prayer, 5 

Ask for more than he has done ? 

When was ever his right hand 

Over my time or land 
Stretched as now beneath the sun? 

How they pale, 10 

Ancient myth and song and tale, 
In this wonder of our days, 

When the cruel rod. of war 

Blossoms white with righteous law. 
And the wrath of man is praise ! 15 

Blotted out ! 

All within and all about 
Shall a fresher life begin ; 

Freer breathe the universe 

As it rolls its heavy curse 20 

On the dead and buried sin ! 

It is done ! 

In the circuit of the sun 
Shall the sound thereof go forth. 

It shall bid the sad rejoice, 25 

It shall give the dumb a voice. 
It shall belt with joy the earth ! 

Ring and swing, 

Bells of joy ! On morning's wing 
Send the song of praise abroad ! 30 

With a sound of broken chains 

Tell the nations that He reigns. 
Who alone is Lord and God ! 



I20 MIDDLE PERIOD 

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE 

Of all the rides since the birth of time, 

Told in story or sung in rhyme, — 

On Apuleius's Golden Ass, 

Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, 

Witch astride of a human back, 5 

Islam's prophet on Al-Borak, — 

The strangest ride that ever was sped 

Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead ! 

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 

Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart lo 

By the women of Marblehead ! 

Body of turkey, head of owl, 

Wings adroop like a rained-on fowl. 

Feathered and ruffled in every part, 

Skipper Ireson stood in the cart. 15 

Scores of women, old and young. 

Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, 

Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, 

Shouting and singing the shrill refrain : 

" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 20 

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, 

Girls in bloom of cheek and lips. 

Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 25 

Bacchus round some antique vase. 

Brief of skirt, with ankles bare. 

Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, 

With conch shells blowing and fish horns' twang, 

Over and over the Msenads sang : 30 



WHITTIER 121 

" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

Small pity for him ! — He sailed away 

From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay, — 5 

Sailed away from a sinking wreck, 

With his own town's people on her deck ! 

" Lay by ! lay by ! " they called to him. 

Back he answered, " Sink or swim ! 

Brag of your catch of fish again ! " lo 

And off he sailed through the fog and rain ! 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart. 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 15 

That wreck shall lie forevermore. 

Mother and sister, wife and maid, 

Looked from the rocks of Marblehead 

Over the moaning and rainy sea, — 

Looked for the coming that might not be ! 20 

What did the winds and the sea birds say 

Of the cruel captain who sailed away ? — 
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 

By the women of Marblehead. 25 

Through the street, on either side, 

Up flew wiridows, doors swung wide ; 

Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray. 

Treble lent the fish horn's bray. 

Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, 30 

Hulks of old sailors run aground. 

Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane. 

And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain : 



122 MIDDLE PERIOD 

" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

Sweetly along the Salem road 

Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. 5 

Little the wicked skipper knew 

Of the fields so green and the sky so blue. 

Riding there in his sorry trim, 

Like an Indian idol glum and grim, 

Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear lo 

Of voices shouting, far and near : 

" Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt, 
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt 
By the women o' Morble'ead ! " 

" Hear me, neighbors ! " at last he cried, — 15 

" What to me is this noisy ride ? 

What is the shame that clothes the skin 

To the nameless horror that lives within? 

Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck. 

And hear a cry from a reeling deck ! 20 

Hate me and curse me, — I only dread 

The hand of God and the face of the dead ! " 
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 

By the women of Marblehead ! 25 

Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea 

Said, " God has touched him ! why should we ! " 

Said an old wife mourning her only son, 

" Cut the rogue's tether and let him run ! " 

So with soft relentings and rude excuse, 30 

Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose. 

And gave him a cloak to hide him in, 

And left him alone with his shame and sin. 



WHITTIER 123 

Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart, 
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart 
By the women of Marblehead ! 

THE BAREFOOT BOY 

Blessings on thee, Uttle man, 

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ! 5 

With thy turned-up pantaloons, 

And thy merry whistled tunes ; 

With thy red lip, redder still 

Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 

With the sunshine on thy face, 10 

Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; 

From my heart I give thee joy, — 

I was once a barefoot boy ! 

Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 

Only is republican. 15 

Let the million-dollared ride ! 

Barefoot, trudging at his side. 

Thou hast more than he can buy 

In the reach of ear and eye, — 

Outward sunshine, inward joy : 20 

Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

Oh, for boyhood's painless play. 

Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 

Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 

Knowledge never learned of schools, 25 

Of the wild bee's morning chase, 

Of the wild flower's time and place, 

Flight of fowl and habitude 

Of the tenants of the wood ; 

How the tortoise bears his shell, 30 

How the woodchuck digs his cell, 



124 MIDDLE PERIOD 

And the ground mole sinks his well ; 

How the robin feeds her young, 

How the oriole's nest is hung; 

Where the whitest hlies blow, 

Where the freshest berries grow, 5 

Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 

Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; 

Of the black wasp's cunning way, 

Mason of his walls of clay, 

And the architectural plans 10 

Of gray hornet artisans ! 

For, eschewing books and tasks, 

Nature answers all he asks ; 

Hand in hand with her he walks, 

Face to face with her he talks, 15 

Part and parcel of her joy, - — 

Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 

Oh, for boyhood's time of June, 

Crowding years in one brief moon, 

When all things I heard or saw 20 

Me, their master, waited for. 

I was rich in flowers and trees. 

Humming-birds and honey-bees ; 

For my sport the squirrel played, 

Phed the snouted mole his spade ; 25 

For my taste the blackberry cone 

Purpled over hedge and stone ; 

Laughed the brook for my delight 

Through the day and through the night, — 

Whispering at the garden, wall, 30 

Talked with me from fall to fall ; 

Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond. 

Mine the walnut slopes beyond. 

Mine, on bending orchard trees, 



WHITTIER 125 

Apples of Hesperides ! 

Still, as my horizon grew, 

Larger grew my riches too ; 

All the world I saw or knew 

Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 5 

Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

Oh, for festal dainties spread. 

Like my bowl of milk and bread ; 

Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 

On the door stone, gray and rude ! 10 

O'er me, like a regal tent, 

Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, . 

Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. 

Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 

While for music came the play 15 

Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; 

And, to light the noisy choir. 

Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 

I was monarch : pomp and joy 

Waited on the barefoot boy ! 20 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 

Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! 

Though the flinty slopes be hard. 

Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 

Every morn shall lead thee through 25 

Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 

Every evening from thy feet 

Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : 

All too soon these feet must hide 

In the prison cells of pride, 30 

Lose the freedom of the sod. 

Like a colt's for work be shod. 

Made to tread the mills of toil. 

Up and down in ceaseless moil : 



126 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Happy if their track be found 

Never on forbidden ground ; 

Happy if they sink not in 

Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 

Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, 5 

Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 

TELLING THE BEES 

Here is the place ; right over the hill 

Runs the path I took ; 
You can see the gap in the old wall still, 

And the stepping stones in the shallow brook. 10 

There is the house, with the gate red-barred, 

And the poplars tall ; 
And the barn's brown length, and the cattle yard, 

And the white horns tossing above the wall. 

There are the beehives ranged in the sun ; 15 

And down by the brink 
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, 

Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. 

A year has gone, as the tortoise goes. 

Heavy and slow ; 20 

And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, 

And the same brook sings of a year ago. 

There's the same sweet clover smell in the breeze ; 

And the June sun warm 
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, 25 

Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. 

I mind me how, with a lover's care, 

From my Sunday coat 
I brushed oflf the burs, and smoothed my hair, 

And cooled at the broo^side roy brow m^ throat, 3Q 



WHITTIER 127 

Since we parted, a month had passed, — 

To love, a year ; 
Down through the beeches I looked at last 

On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. 

I can see it all now, — the slantwise rain 5 

Of light through the leaves, 
The sundown's blaze on her window-pane. 

The bloom of her roses under the eaves. 

Just the same as a month before, — 

The house and the trees, 10 

The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, — 

Nothing changed but the hives of bees. 

Before them, under the garden wall. 

Forward and back. 
Went, drearily singing, the chore girl small, 15 

Draping each hive with a shred of black. 

Trembling, I listened ; the summer sun 

Had the chill of snow ; 
For I knew she was telling the bees of one 

Gone on the journey we all must go ! 20 

Then I said to myself, " My Mary weeps 

For the dead to-day ; 
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps 

The fret and the pain of his age away." 

But her dog whined low ; on the doorway sill, 25 

With his cane to his chin, 
The old man sat ; and the chore girl still 

Sang to the bees stealing out and in. 

And the song she was singing ever since 

In my ear sounds on : 30 

" Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence ! 

Mistress Mary is dead and gone ! " 



128 MIDDLE PERIOD 



MY PLAYMATE 



The pines were dark on Ramoth hill, 

Their song was soft and low ; 
The blossoms in the sweet May wind 

Were falling like the snow. 

The blossoms drifted at our feet, 5 

The orchard birds sang clear ; 
The sweetest and the saddest day 

It seemed of all the year. 

For, more to me than birds or flowers. 

My playmate left her home, 10 

And took with her the laughing spring, 

The music and the bloom. 

She kissed the lips of kith and kin, 

She laid her hand in mine : 
What more could ask the bashful boy 15 

Who fed her father's kine? 

She left us in the bloom of May : 

The constant years told o'er 
Their seasons with as sweet May morns. 

But she came back no more. 20 

I walk, with noiseless feet, the round 

Of uneventful years ; 
Still o'er and o'er I sow the spring 

And reap the autumn ears. 

She lives where all the golden year 25 

Her summer roses blow ; 
The dusky children of the sun 

Before her come and go. 



WHITTIER 129 

There haply with her jeweled hands 

She smooths her silken gown, — 
No more the homespun lap wherein 

I shook the walnuts down. 

The wild grapes wait us by the brook, 5 

The brown nuts on the hill. 
And still the May-day flowers make sweet 

The woods of Fallymill. 

The lilies blossom in the pond, 

The bird builds in the tree, 10 

The dark pines sing on Ramoth hill 

The slow song of the sea. 

I wonder if she thinks of them, 

And how the old time seems, — 
If ever the pines of Ramoth wood 15 

Are sounding in her dreams. 

I see her face, I hear her voice : 

Does she remember mine ? 
And what to her is now the boy 

Who fed her father's kine ? 20 

What cares she that the orioles build 

For other eyes than ours, — 
That other hands with nuts are filled. 

And other laps with flowers? 

O playmate in the golden time ! 25 

Our mossy seat is green. 
Its fringing violets blossom yet, 

The old trees o'er it lean. 
long's am. poems 9 



130 MIDDLE PERIOD 

The winds so sweet with birch and fern 
A sweeter memory blow ; 

And there in spring the veeries sing 
The song of long ago. 

And still the pines of Ramoth wood 
Are moaning like the sea, — 

The moaning of the sea of change 
Between myself and thee ! 

AMY WENTWORTH 

Her fingers shame the ivory keys 
They dance so light along ; 

The bloom upon her parted lips 
Is sweeter than the song. 

O perfumed suitor, spare thy smiles ! 

Her thoughts are not of thee ; 
She better loves the salted wind, 

The voices of the sea. 

Her heart is like an outbound ship 
That at its anchor swings ; 

The murmur of the stranded shell 
Is in the song she sings. 

She sings, and, smiling, hears her praise, 
But dreams the while of one 

Who watches from his sea-blown deck 
The icebergs in the sun. 

She questions all the winds that blow, 
And every fog wreath dim, 

And bids the sea birds flying north 
Bear messages to him. 



WHITTIER 1 3 1 

She speeds them with the thanks of men 

He perilled life to save, 
And grateful prayers like holy oil 

To smooth for him the wave. 

Brown Viking of the fishing smack ! 5 

Fair toast of all the town ! 
The skipper's jerkin ill beseems 

The lady's silken gown ! 

But ne'er shall Amy Wentworth wear 

For him the blush of shame 10 

Who dares to set his manly gifts 

Against her ancient name. 

The stream is brightest at its spring, 

And blood is not like wine ; 
Nor honored less than he who heirs 15 

Is he who founds a line. 

Full lightly shall the prize be won, 

If love be fortune's spur ; 
And never maiden stoops to him 

Who hfts himself to her. 20 

Her home is brave in Jaffrey Street, 

With stately stairways worn 
By feet of old Colonial knights 

And ladies gentle born. 

Still green about its ample porch 35 

The English ivy twines, 
Trained back to show in English oak 

The herald's carven signs. 



132 MIDDLE PERIOD 

And on her, from the wainscot old, 

Ancestral faces frown, — 
And this has worn the soldier's sword, 

And that the judge's gown. 

But, strong of will and proud as they, 5 

She walks the gallery floor 
As if she trod her sailor's deck 

By stormy Labrador ! 

The sweetbrier blooms on Kittery-side, 

And green are Eliot's bowers ; 10 

Her garden is the pebbled beach, 
The mosses are her flowers. 

She looks across the harbor bar 

To see the white gulls fly ; 
His greeting from the Northern sea 15 

Is in their clanging cry. 

She hums a song, and dreams that he, 

As in its romance old, 
Shall homeward ride with silken sails 

And masts of beaten gold ! 20 

O, rank is good, and gold is fair, 

And high and low mate ill ; 
But love has never known a law 

Beyond its own sweet will ! 

THE ETERNAL GOODNESS 

O FRIENDS ! with whom my feet have trod 25 

The quiet aisles of prayer. 
Glad witness to your zeal for God 

And love of man I bear. 



WHITTIER 133 

I trace your lines of argument ; 

Your logic linked and strong 
I weigh as one who dreads dissent, 

And fears a doubt as wrong. 

But still my human hands are weak 5 

To hold your iron creeds : 
Against the words ye bid me speak 

My heart within me pleads. 

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? 

Who talks of scheme and plan? 10 

The Lord is God ! He needeth not 

The poor device of man. 

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground 

Ye tread with boldness shod ; 
I dare not fix with mete and bound 15 

The love and power of God. 

Ye praise His justice ; even such 

His pitying love I deem : 
Ye seek a king ; I fain would touch 

The robe that hath no seam. ao 

Ye see the curse which overbroods 

A world of pain and loss ; 
I hear our Lord's beatitudes 

And prayer upon the cross. 

More than your schoolmen teach, within 25 

Myself, alas ! I know : 
Too dark ye cannot paint the sin, 

Too small the merit show. 



134 MIDDLE PERIOD 

I bow my forehead to the dust, 

I veil mine eyes for shame, 
And urge, in trembhng self-distrust, 

A prayer without a claim. 

I see the wrong that round me lies, 5 

I feel the guilt within ; 
I h'ear, with groan and travail cries. 

The world confess its sin. 

Yet, in the maddening maze of things, 

And tossed by storm and flood, 10 

To one fixed trust my spirit clings ; 
I know that God is good ! 

Not mine to look where cherubim 

And seraphs may not see. 
But nothing can be good in him 15 

Which evil is in me. 

The wrong that pains my soul below 

I dare not throne above, 
I know not of His hate, — I know 

His goodness and his love. 20 

I dimly guess from blessings known 

Of greater out of sight, 
And, with the chastened Psalmist, own 

His judgments too are right. 

I long for household voices gone, 25 

For vanished smiles I long. 
But God hath led my dear ones on, 

And He can do no wrong. 



•WHITTIER 135 

I know not what the future hath 

Of marvel or surprise, 
Assured alone that life and death 

His mercy underlies. 

And if my heart and flesh are weak 5 

To bear an untried pain, 
The bruised reed He will not break, 

But strengthen and sustain. 

No offering of my own I have, 

Nor works my faith to prove ; 10 

I can but give the gifts He gave, 

And plead His love for love. 

And so beside the Silent Sea 

I wait the muffled oar ; 
No harm from Him can come to me 15 

On ocean or on shore. 

I know not where His islands lift 

Their fronded palms in air ; 
I only know I cannot drift 

Beyond His love and care. 20 

O brothers ! if my faith is vain. 

If hopes like these betray, 
Pray for me that my feet may gain 

The sure and safer way. 

And Thou, O Lord ! by whom are seen 25 

Thy creatures as they be, 
Forgive me if too close I lean 

My human heart on Thee ! 



136 MIDDLE PERIOD 

EDGAR ALLAN POE 

I 809-1 849 

POE came from good Revolutionary stock in Maryland. His father, 
however, drifted away from the traditions of the family, married an 
English actress, and went on the stage himself. Edgar Poe was born 
in a lodging house in Boston, where his parents were acting in the 
Federal Street Theater. His father died soon afterwards, and left his 
mother with three children to support. Two years after Edgar's birth 
she died of pneumonia in Richmond, Virginia, in great poverty and 
distress, in a room on the cellar floor of a theatrical lodging house. 

Two of the Poe children were cared for by relatives in Baltimore, 
while Edgar was adopted by John Allan, a well-to-do tobacco merchant 
of Richmond. Mr, and Mrs. Allan were childless, and the boy, 
whose name was now changed to Edgar Allan Poe, was tenderly cared 
for and educated amid fortunate surroundings. At school he showed 
himself a lad of quick parts. He not only studied well, but he excelled 
in athletics, in debate, and in the writing of verses. In 181 5 the Allans 
went to England, taking their adopted son with them, and putting him 
to school for a few years in the suburbs of London. On the whole, 
this seems to have been the happiest period of Poe's life. On his return 
to America, he entered the University of Virginia, where he stood well 
as a scholar. Here, however, he began to show strongly that willful 
and wayward spirit which did much to mar the success and happiness 
of his later life. He not only became subject to fits of moodiness, but 
began to drink to excess and to gamble at cards beyond his means. 
His adopted father refused to pay these gambling debts, and took Poe 
from the University and placed him in his own counting-room in Rich- 
mond. Proud, willful, resentful, and impatient of restraint, he ran away 
to Boston and enlisted in the regular army as an artilleryman under the 
name of Edgar A. Perry. For nearly two years he performed his duties 
as a soldier so well that he was made sergeant major. 

On the death of Mr. Allan's wife, Poe became reconciled with his 
foster father, who procured his release from the army and got him 
an appointment as a cadet at West Point. Before going to West Point 
he had already published a volume of poems, and it was probably 
because of his growing sense of Uterary power that he became restless 
at the military academy and wished to leave. Mr. Allan objected to this 



POE 137 

change, and Poe thereupon broke enough rules to get himself dismissed. 
By this time Mr. Allan had married again, and he now washed his 
hands of all further responsibility for his adopted son. 

Poe was now, at the age of twenty-two, adrift in the world alone, 
with nothing save his own youth, ambition, and talents. After a 
hard stmggle and much privation, he turned his hand to prose tales. 
One of his stories won a prize of a hundred dollars, but he could as 
yet find no publisher for a volume of stories. He resided for a time in 
Baltimore with his father's sister, Mrs. Clemm, where he found a friend 
in J. P. Kennedy, the novelist, who got for him the position of assistant 
editor of the Southern Literary Messenger at Richmond. To this 
journal he contributed poems, stories, and critical articles of unusual 
merit, which rapidly brought the magazine into prominence. He now 
married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, of Baltimore, when he was twenty 
seven and she barely fourteen. A few months after his marriage he 
lost his position on the Messenger. Indeed, this is the unedifying story 
of his life from now on till his death at the age of forty. He edited one 
journal after another in Philadelphia and New York, but remained with 
no one long. The last five years of his life were spent in New York, 
where his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, supported the small family for a time by 
taking boarders. In 1846 he moved into a small cottage at Fordham, 
on the outskirts of New York city. The next year his wife died ; he 
himself was also ill at the time. Friends in New York raised more than 
one subscription among themselves to relieve the pressing necessities 
of the unfortunate couple. Poe rallied for a while after his wife's death, 
and began to write and lecture. It was during this time that he wrote 
The Bells and Annabel Lee. He also became engaged to an old sweet- 
heart, a Mrs. Shelton, of Richmond. A few days before the time set 
for the marriage, however, he was picked up in a helpless condition in 
the streets of Baltimore, and taken to a hospital, where in a few days he 
died. His remains were cared for by relatives, and buried in the yard 
of the Westminster Presbyterian Church. 

What should be said, in all fairness, in regard to the life and char- 
acter of Poe ? He differed very radically in many ways from his chief 
contemporaries. Bryant, Emerson, Whittier, Holmes, Longfellow, 
Lowell, and Hawthorne were not only men of unblemished private life, 
but they were men of balance, steadiness, and self-control. The same 
may also be said of the greatest Enghsh men of letters. As to Poe's 
gambling, that probably ended with his student days. But intemper- 



138 MIDDLE PERIOD 

ance in drink was undoubtedly responsible for many of his troubles and 
failures. His nervous organization was so delicate that he was easily 
stimulated beyond self-control. Further than this, Poe's private life seems 
to have been without blot. He was a devoted husband, and through- 
out his writings there is not the slightest taint of impurity. That his 
temper was wayward, and that he was acutely sensitive beyond most 
men, is beyond doubt true. There is no evidence that he was a man 
of deep religious feeling, and it is also most likely that he inherited that 
moral irresponsibility which is so often found among player folk. That 
he was not grossly immoral in many ways was probably due to his 
inherent delicacy and refinement — a delicacy and refinement which 
showed itself in all his literary work. 

Poe's literary work falls into three divisions — literary criticism, 
prose tales, and poetry. His early criticisms are marked by fairness, 
penetration, and luminous statement. During his later, embittered 
years, however, he allowed his personal dislikes and jealousies to warp 
his judgment. He was particularly savage in his attacks upon the 
greater men of New England, — attacks which called out a resentment 
which has not wholly died out. Even the kindly Emerson was moved 
to speak sneeringly of Poe as " the jingle man " ; and Lowell said : — 

There comes Poe with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, 
Three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge. 

Poe's prose tales — of which The Murders in the Rue Morgue^ The 
Fall of the House of Usher, and The Gold-Bug are good examples — 
are masterpieces of skillful narration. The grewsome and the mysteri- 
ous' are the themes most commonly employed. Poe may be said to 
have invented the detective story. In both his prose tales and in his 
poetry he has the power of enthralling the imagination. As a writer 
of short stories, he takes first rank in American letters. 

Poe is also a master of metrical eifect in verse. He possessed in a 
supreme degree what Emerson called " magic of form." He has left 
only a small body of poetry, and this is narrow in range and somewhat 
lacking in human feeling. He is the poet of brooding melancholy, of 
decaying or vanishing beauty, of unfulfilled desires and shattered hopes ; 
but he invests these subjects with such grace, charm, and imaginative 
brilliancy that even the coldly critical cannot escape the spell. Other 
poets have written sentimentally about fallen hopes, but Poe has done 
it with such hypnotic melody and with such final grace of phrase that 



POE 139 

the mind is completely satisfied. This power to bewitch the imagina- 
tion emanates from the man himself, — it was not borrowed, nor has it 
been successfully imitated, — and it marks him apart as a man of crea- 
tive genius. He lacks, it is true, the range of the very greatest poets, 
yet he is. within his limits, a supreme artist. 

TO HELEN 

Helen, thy beauty is to me 

Like those Nicsean barks of yore 

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 
The weary, wayvs^orn wanderer bore 
To his own native shore. 5 

On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 
To the glory that was Greece 
And the grandeur that was Rome. 10 

Lo ! in yon brilliant window niche 
How statue-like I see thee stand. 

The agate lamp within thy hand ! 
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 
Are Holy Land ! 15 

TO ONE IN PARADISE 

Thou wast all that to me, love, 

For which my soul did pine : 
A green isle in the sea, love, 

A fountain and a shrine 
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, 20 

And all the flowers were mine. 



Ah, dream too bright to last ! 
Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise 



140 MIDDI.E PERIOD 

But to be overcast ! 

A voice from out the Future cries, 
" On ! on ! " — but o'er the Past 

(Dim gulf) ray spirit hovering lies 
Mute, motionless, aghast. 5 

For, alas ! alas ! with me 

The hght of Life is o'er ! 

No more — no more — no more — 
(Such language holds the solemn sea 

To the sands upon the shore) lo 

Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, 

Or the stricken eagle soar. 

And all my days are trances. 

And all my nightly dreams 
Are where thy gray eye glances, 15 

And where thy footstep gleams — 
In what ethereal dances. 

By what eternal streams. 



THE BELLS 



Hear the sledges with the bells, 

Silver bells ! 20 

What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

In the icy air of night ! 
While the stars, that ov^rsprinkle 
All the heavens, seem to twinkle 25 

With a crystalhne delight ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme. 



POE 141 

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells — 
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 



Hear the mellow wedding bells, 5 

Golden bells ! 
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells ! 
Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight ! 

From the molten-golden notes, 10 

And all in tune. 
What a hquid ditty floats 
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
On the moon ! 
Oh, from out the sounding cells, 15 

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
How it swells ! 
How it dwells 
On the Future ! how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 20 

To the swinging and the ringing 

Of the bells, bells, bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 25 

m 

Hear the loud alarum bells. 
Brazen bells ! 
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells ! 
In the startled ear of night 
How they scream out their affright ! 30 



142 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Too much horrified to speak, 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appeaUng to the mercy of the fire, 
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, 5 
Leaping higher, higher, higher. 
With a desperate desire, 
And a resolute endeavor 
Now — now to sit or never. 
By the side of the pale-faced moon. 10 

Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! 
What a tale their terror tells 
Of Despair ! 
How they clang, and clash, and roar ! 
What a horror they outpour 15 

On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
Yet the ear it fully knows, 
By the twanging 
And the clanging, 
How the danger ebbs and flows ; 20 

Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
In the jangling 
And the wrangling. 
How the danger sinks and swells, — 
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, 25 
Of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
Bells, bells, bells — 
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 

IV 

Hear the toUing of the' bells, 30 

Iron bells ! 
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 



POE 143 

In the silence of the night 
How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats S 

Is a groan. 
And the people — ah, the people. 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 

All alone, 
And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 10 

In that muffled monotone, 
Feel a glory in so rolling 

On the human heart a stone — 
They are neither man nor woman. 
They are neither brute nor human, 15 

They are Ghouls : 
And their king it is who tolls ; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls. 
Rolls 
A paean from the bells ; 20 

And his merry bosom swells 

With the pgean of the bells, 
And he dances, and he yells : 
Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 25 

To the paean of the bells. 
Of the bells. 
Keeping time, time, time, 
In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells, 30 

Of the bells, bells, bells — 

To the sobbing of the bells ; 
Keeping time, time, time, 

As he knells, knells, knells, 
In a happy Runic rhyme, 35 



144 MIDDLE PERIOD 

To the rolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells : 
To the tolling of the bells, 
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 

Bells, bells, bells — 5 

To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 

THE RAVEN 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, — 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. lo 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber door : 
Only this and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow 15 
From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore, 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore : 
Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 20 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door. 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door : 
This it is and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, 25 
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping. 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you " — here I opened wide the 
door : — 
Darkness there and nothing more. 30 



POE 145 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, 

fearing. 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream 

before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word 

" Lenore ? " 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 

" Lenore " : 5 

Merely this and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 
" Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window lattice ; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore ; 10 
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore : 
'Tis the wind and nothing more." 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter. 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed 
he; 15 

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door. 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door : 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, — 20 

"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure 

no craven, 
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore : 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore ! " 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 25 
Though its answer httle meaning — little relevancy bore; 
long's am. poems — 10 



146 MIDDLE PERIOD 

For we cannot help agreeing that no Uving human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 
With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 5 

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered. 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, — " Other friends have flown 

before ; 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." 
Then the bird said, " Nevermore." 10 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore : 
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore 15 

Of * Never — nevermore.' " 

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and 

door ; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to hnking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, 20 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of 

yore 
Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 25 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, 
But whose velvet violet hning with the lamplight gloating o'er 
She shall press, ah, nevermore ! 



POE 147 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen 

censer 
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels 

he hath sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore ! " 5 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 

ashore. 
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — 
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore : 10 
Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I im- 
plore ! " 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil ! 
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore. 
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, 15 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore : 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore ! " 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, 

upstarting : 
" Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ! 20 
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ■ 
Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above my door ! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my 

door ! " 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 25 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door ; 



148 MIDDLE PERIOD 

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the 

floor : 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 
Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 



THE HAUNTED PALACE 

In the greenest of our valleys 5 J 

By good angels tenanted, 
Once a fair and stately palace — 

Radiant palace — reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion, 

It stood there ; 10 

Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair. 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden. 

On its roof did float and flow 
(This — all this — was in the olden 15 

Time long ago), 
And every gentle air that dallied. 

In that sweet day, 
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

A winged odor went away. 20 

Wanderers in that happy valley 

Through two luminous windows saw 
Spirits moving musically, 

To a lute's well-tuned law. 
Round about a throne where, sitting, 25 

Porphyrogene, 
In state his glory well befitting, 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 



POE 149 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door, 
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 5 

Was but to sing. 
In voices of surpassing beauty. 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

Assailed the monarch's high estate ; 10 

(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 

Shall dawn upon him desolate !) 
And round about his home the glory 

That blushed and bloomed. 
Is but a dim-remembered story 15 

Of the old time entombed. 

And travelers now within that valley 

Through the red-litten windows see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody ; 20 

While, like a ghastly rapid river. 

Through the pale door 
A hideous throng rush out forever, 

And laugh — but smile no more. 

THE CITY IN THE SEA 

Lo ! Death has reared himself a throne 25 

In a strange city lying alone 

Far down within the dim West, 

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best 

Have gone to their eternal rest. 

There shrines and palaces and towers 30 

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not) 



150 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Resemble nothing that is ours. 
Around, by lifting winds forgot, 
Resignedly beneath the sky 
The melancholy waters lie. 

No rays from the holy heaven come down 
On the long night-time of that town ; 
But light from out the lurid sea 
Streams up the turrets silently, 
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free : 
Up domes, up spires, up kingly halls. 
Up fanes, up Babylon-like walls. 
Up shadowy long- forgotten bowers 
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers, 
Up many and many a marvelous shrine 
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine 
The viol, the violet, and the vine. 

Resignedly beneath the sky 

The melancholy waters lie. 

So blend the turrets and shadows there 

That all seem pendulous in air, 

While from a proud tower in the town 

Death looks gigantically down. 

There open fanes and gaping graves 
Yawn level with the luminous waves ; 
But not the riches there that lie 
In each idol's diamond eye, — 
Not the gayly jeweled dead. 
Tempt the waters from their bed ; 
For no ripples curl, alas, 
Along that wilderness of glass ; 
No swellings tell that winds may be 
Upon some far-off happier sea ; 



POE 1 5 I 

No heavings hint that winds have been 

On seas less hideously serene ! 

Rut lo, a stir is in the air ! 

The wave — there is a movement there ! 

As if the towers had thrust aside, 5 

In slightly sinking, the dull tide ; 

As if their tops had feebly given 

A void within the filmy Heaven ! 

The waves have now a redder glow. 

The hours are breathing faint and low ; 10 

And when, amid no earthly moans, 

Down, down that town shall settle hence. 

Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, 

Shall do it reverence. 

ISRAFEL 

And the angel Israfel whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the 
sweetest voice of all God's creatures. — Koran. 

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell 15 

Whose heart-strings are a lute ; 
None sing so wildly well 
As the angel Israfel, 
And the giddy stars (so legends tell), 
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell 20 

Of his voice, all mute. 

Tottering above 

In her highest noon, 

The enamoured moon 
Blushes with love, * 25 

While, to listen, the red levin 

(With the rapid Pleiads, even, 

Which were seven) 

Pauses in Heaven, 



152 MIDDLE PERIOD 

And they say (the starry choir 
And the other Hstening things) 

That IsrafeU's fire 

Is owing to that lyre 

By which he sits and sings, 5 

The trembhng Uving wire 
Of those unusual strings. 

But the skies that angel trod, 
Where deep thoughts are a duty, 

Where Love's a grown-up God, 10 

Where the Houri glances are 
Imbued with all the beauty 

Which we worship in a star. 

Therefore thou art not wrong, 

Israfeli, who despisest 15 

An unimpassioned song; 
To thee the laurels belong, 

Best bard, because the wisest : 
Merrily live, and long ! 

The ecstasies above 20 

With thy burning measures suit : 

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, 
With the fervor of thy lute : 
Well may the stars be mute ! 

Yes, Heaven is thine ; but this 25 

Is a world of sweets and sours ; 
Our flowers are merely — flowers, 

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss 
Is the sunshine of ours. 

If I could dwell 30 

-Where Israfel 

Hath dwelt, and he where I, 



POE 153 

He might not sing so wildly well 

A mortal melody, 
While a bolder note than this might swell 

From my lyre within the sky. 

THE SLEEPER 

At midnight, in the month of June, 5 

I stand beneath the mystic moon. 

An opiate vapor, dewy, dim, 

Exhales from out her golden rim, 

And, softly dripping, drop by drop, 

Upon the quiet mountain top, 10 

Steals drowsily and musically 

Into the universal valley. 

The rosemary nods upon the grave ; 

The lily lolls upon the wave ; 

Wrapping the fog about its breast, 15 

The ruin molders into rest ; 

Looking like Lethe, see ! the lake 

A conscious slumber seems to take. 

And would not, for the world, awake. 

All beauty sleeps ! — and lo ! where lies 20 

Irene, with her destinies ! 

O lady bright ! can it be right, 

This window open to the night? 

The wanton airs, from the tree top. 

Laughingly through the lattice drop ; 25 

The bodiless airs, a wizard rout. 

Flit through thy chamber in and out, 

And wave the curtain canopy 

So fitfully, so fearfully. 

Above the closed and fringed lid 30 

'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, 



154 MIDDLE PERIOD 

That, o'er the floor and down the wall, 
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall. 

lady dear, hast thou no fear? 

Why and what art thou dreaming here? 

Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, 5 

A wonder to these garden trees ! 

Strange is thy pallor : strange thy dress : 

Strange, above all, thy length of tress. 

And this all solemn silentness ! 

The lady sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, 10 

Which is enduring, so be deep ! 
Heaven have her in its sacred keep ! 
This chamber changed for one more holy, 
This bed for one more melancholy, 

1 pray to God that she may lie 15 
Forever with unopened eye, 

While the pale sheeted ghosts go by. 

My love, she sleeps. Oh, may her sleep, 

As it is lasting, so be deep ! 

Soft may the worms about her creep ! 20 

Far in the forest, dim and old. 

For her may some tall vault unfold : 

Some vault that oft hath flung its black 

And winged panels fluttering back. 

Triumphant, o'er the crested palls 25 

Of her grand family funerals : 

Some sepulcher, remote, alone, 

Against whose portal she hath thrown. 

In childhood, many an i^le stone : 

Some tomb from out whose sounding door 30 

She ne'er shall force an echo more. 

Thrilling to think, poor child of sin, 

Jt was the dead who groaned within ! 



POE 1 5 5 



ULALUME 



The skies they were ashen and sober ; 

The leaves they were crisped and sear, 

The leaves they were withering and sear ; 
It was night in the lonesome October 

Of my most immemorial year ; 5 

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 

In the misty mid region of Weir : 
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 

In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 

Here once, through an alley Titanic lo 

Of cypress I roamed with my Soul — 

Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 
They were days when my heart was volcanic 

As the scoriae rivers that roll. 

As the lavas that restlessly roll 15 

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 

In the ultimate climes of the pole. 
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 

In the realms of the boreal pole. 

Our talk had been serious and sober, 20 

But our thoughts they were palsied and sear. 
Our memories were treacherous and sear. 

For we knew not the month was October, 
And we marked not the night of the year, 
(Ah, night of all nights in the year !) 25 

We noted not the dim lake of Auber 

(Though once we had journeyed down here), 

Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber 
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir, 

And now, as the night was senescent 30 

And star-dials pointed to morn, 



156 MIDDLE PERIOD 

As the star-dials hinted of mom, 
At the end of our path a hquescent 

And nebulous luster was born, 
Out of which a miraculous crescent 

Arose with a duplicate horn, 5 

Astarte's bediamonded crescent 

Distinct with its duplicate horn. 

And I said — " She is warmer than Dian : 

She rolls through an ether of sighs, 

She revels in a region of sighs : 10 

She has seen that the tears are not dry on 

These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 
And has come past the stars of the Lion 

To point us the path to the skies, 

To the Lethean peace of the skies : 15 

Come up, in despite of the Lion, 

To shine on us with her bright eyes : 
Come up thrqugh the lair of the Lion, 

With love in her luminous eyes." 

But Psyche, uplifting the finger, 20 

Said — " Sadly this star I mistrust. 

Her pallor I strangely mistrust : 
Oh, hasten ! — oh, let us not linger ! 

Oh, fly ! — let us fly ! — for we must." 
In terror she spoke, letting sink her 25 

Wings until they trailed in the dust ; 
In agony sobbed, letting sink her 

Plumes till they trailed in the dust, 

Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 

I replied — " This is nothing but dreaming : 30 

Let us on by this tremulous light ! 

Let us bathe in this crystalline light ! 
Its sibyllic splendor is beaming 



POE 157 

With hope and in beauty to-night : 

See, it iiickers up the sky through the night ! 
Ah, we safely rnay trust to its gleaming, 

And be sure it will lead us aright : 
We safely may trust to a gleaming 5 

That cannot but guide us aright. 

Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." 

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, 

And tempted her out of her gloom, 

And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 10 

And we passed to the end of the vista. 

But were stopped by the door of a tomb, 

By the door of a legended tomb ; 
And I said — " What is written, sweet sister, 

On the door of this legended tomb? " 15 

She rephed — " Ulalume — Ulalume — 

'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume ! " 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
As the leaves that were crisped and sear, 
As the leaves that were withering and sear, 20 

And I cried — " It was surely October 
On this very night of last year 
That I journeyed — I journeyed down here. 
That I brought a dread burden down here : 
On this night of all nights in the year, 25 

Ah, what demon has tempted me here ? 

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber, 
This misty mid region of Weir : 

Well, I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, 
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 30 



158 MIDDLE PERIOD 

ANNABEL LEE 

It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee ; 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 

In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 

My beautiful Annabel Lee ; 

So that her highborn kinsman came 

And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulcher 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, 

Went envying her and me ; 
Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know. 

In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night. 

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
Of those who were older than we, 
Of many far wiser than we j 



HOLMES 159 

And neither the angels in heaven above, 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee : 

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 5 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; 

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 

Of my darling — my darHng — my life and my bride, 10 

In her sepulcher there by the sea. 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

1809-1894 

The intellectual revival in New England which made itself felt so 
strongly in Emerson and Longfellow had lost some of its force when it 
reached Holmes and Lowell. They felt its influence, but they caught 
only the ebb of the tide. This is especially true of Holmes. Then, too, 
both of these men were many other things besides poets. For a num- 
ber of years they filled professorships at Harvard, and their energies 
and interests took so many turns that one is almost tempted to say 
that their lives are more interesting than their poems. Holmes, for 
instance, was a physician, a poet, a prose writer, a witty talker, an 
amiable and urbane figure in society, and a college man of a very 
high type, who spent the greater part of his long life in one of the most 
intellectual cities of the country. He represented Boston, and Boston 
w^s, in a way that no other man of his generation could. 

Holmes was born at Cambridge, in Massachusetts, under the shadow 
of Harvard College. His father, the Rev. Abiel Holmes, a Connecti- 
cut man and a graduate of Yale, was minister of the First Church in 
Cambridge. The poet's mother was of an old Massachusetts family 
noted for its ability at the bar. The boy was sent to Andover for his early 



l60 MIDDLE PERIOD 

schooling, and later was duly graduated from Harvard in the celebrated 
class of 1829. In college he was a leader in the literary and dramatic 
society known as the Hasty Pudding Club, the archives of which still 
preserve some of his unpublished college verses. After graduation he 
turned to the law, but soon gave it up for medicine. He studied at 
home and abroad for several years in order to get the most thorough 
preparation possible, and finally took his medical degree in the same 
year that he published his first volume of poems. In 1840 he married 
Miss Amelia Lee Jackson, and settled down in Boston for the remain- 
ing fifty-four years of his life. In 1847 he was called to the chair of 
anatomy and physiology in the Harvard Medical School, in Boston. 
This chair he held until his death, but during many of those years he 
was also active in his profession. He wrote and published poems from 
time to time, but his first important literary achievement was The 
Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table, a prose work of remarkable clever- 
ness, which began in the Atlantic Monthly in 1857. This effort placed 
him at once among the prominent men of letters of his day. The 
Aiitocrat was followed by two other interesting volumes of table-talk, 
The Poet at the Breakfast-Table and The Professor at the Breakfast- 
Table, but these volumes have not the freshness and sparkle of the 
first. He wrote three novels, — Elsie Venner, A Mortal Aiitipathy, 
and The Guardian Angel, — but they add little to his reputation. 
He continued to write both prose and verse for the magazines as long 
as he lived. When he was an old man in years, — he never grew old 
in spirit, — he spent three months in England, where he was warmly 
received by London letters and fashion, and honored with academic 
degrees. 

Holmes's last days were as fortunate as they were serene. He had 
become a personage in Boston to whom consideration and honor were 
given without stint. Although he lived to be eighty-five, his faculties 
were unimpaired almost to the last. In stature he was almost 
diminutive, but he was always as alert and active in body as he was 
nimble and volatile in mind. His only son, who is his namesake, was 
appointed a justice of the Supreme Court of the United States fcy 
President Roosevelt. 

Holmes was a man of intellect rather than of deep feeling or strong 
imagination. Hence it seems likely that The Autocrat of the Break- 
fast-Table will live longer than his poems. In early life he wrote Old 
Ironsides and The Last Leaf, and nothing that he wrote later js per- 



HOLMES l6l 

haps so popular. Yet a handful of his poems have found their way into 
all anthologies, and they show as yet no signs of waning popularity. 
They are marked by neatness of touch, intellectual dexterity, and by 
grace and refinement of sentiment. But the flight of his imagination 
was never very high or very prolonged. He seemed incapable, too, of 
sustaining any one mood long. If he begins gravely, he is very apt to 
end in jest ; and when he sets forth in a gay mood, he sometimes con- 
cludes with a sermon. And yet it is in just this skillful blending of 
the grave and the gay — for of such is life — that Holmes finally appears 
as a true and unusual artist. This quality of his poetry shows itself 
most clearly in his occasional verse, where the kindly, human side of 
the man shone out, — the friendliness that won for him so many friends. 
Indeed, his poetry is still so under the spell of his great personal popu- 
larity that it is not easy to guess what may be the opinion of later 
generations. As a poet, it seems certain that his rank is below that of 
his most conspicuous contemporaries ; but in his mind and character he 
reflected so accurately the tone and temper of Unitarian Boston when 
Unitarianism was at its best, and he gave expression to this life with 
such urbane humor and such neatness of wit, that his position as a 
representative man of letters seems assured. 

OLD IRONSIDES 

Aye, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high, 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky ; 
Beneath it rung the battle shout, 5 

And burst the cannon's roar ; — 
The meteor of the ocean air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 10 

When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 
And waves were white below. 

No more shall feel the victor's tread, 
Or know the conquered knee ; 
long's am. poems — II 



1 62 MIDDLE PERIOD 

The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
The eagle of the sea ! 

O, better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave ; 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave ; 
Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 
And give her to the god of storms, 

The lightning and the gale ! 



THE LAST LEAF 

I SAW him once before, 
As he passed Iiy the door, 

And again 
The pavement stones resound, 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 

They say that in his prime. 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the Crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan. 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 

" They are gone." 



HOLMES 163 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has prest 

In their bloom, 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 5 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said — 
Poor old lady, she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 10 

And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow ; 

But now his nose is thin. 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff, 15 

And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 

For me to sit and grin 20 

At him here ; 
But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer ! 

And if I should live to be 25 

The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring. 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 30 



1 64 MIDDLE PERIOD 

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed mam, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 5 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell, " 10 

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 15 

That spread his lustrous coil ; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 20 

Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 

Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
Fronfi thy dead lips a clearer note as born 25 

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 

While on mine ear it rings. 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that 
sings : — 



HOLMES 165 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 5 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 

THE LIVING TEMPLE 

Not in the world of light alone. 

Where God has built his blazing throne, 

Nor yet alone in earth below, 10 

With belted seas that come and go. 

And endless isles of sunht green. 

Is all thy Maker's glory seen : 

Look in upon thy wondrous frame, — 

Eternal wisdom still the same ! 15 

The smooth, soft air with pulselike waves 

Flows murmuring through its hidden caves, 

Whose streams of brightening purple rush. 

Fired with a new and livelier blush, 

While all their burden of decay 20 

The ebbing current steals away, 

And red with nature's flame they start 

From the warm fountains of the heart. 

No rest that throbbing slave may ask, 

Forever quivering o'er his task, 25 

While far and wide a crimson jet 

Leaps forth to fill the woven net 

Which in unnumbered crossing tides 

The flood of burning life divides. 

Then, kindhng each decaying part, 30 

Creeps back to find the throbbing heart. 



1 66 MIDDLE PERIOD 

But warmed with that unchanging flame 

Behold the outward moving frame, 

Its Hving marbles jointed strong 

With ghstening band and silvery thong, 

And linked to reason's guiding reins 5 

By myriad rings in trembling chains, 

Each graven with the threaded zone 

Which claims it as the master's own. 

See how yon beam of seeming white 

Is braided out of seven-hued light, to 

Yet in those lucid globes no ray 

By any chance shall break astray. 

Hark how the rolling surge of sound, 

Arches and spirals circling round, 

Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear 15 

With music it is heaven to hear. 

Then mark the cloven sphere that holds 

All thought in its mysterious folds ; 

That feels sensation's faintest thrill, 

And flashes forth the sovereign will ; 20 

Think on the stormy world that dwells 

Locked in its dim and clustering cells ! 

The lightning gleams of power it sheds 

Along its hollow glassy threads ! 

O Father ! grant thy love divine 25 

To make these mystic temples thine ! 

When wasting age and wearying strife 

Have sapped the leaning ^yalls of life, 

When darkness gathers over all, 

And the last tottering pillars fall. 30 

Take the poor dust thy mercy warms, 

And mould it into heavenly forms ! 



HOLMES 167 

NEARING THE SNOW-LINE 

Slow toiling upward from the misty vale, 

I leave the bright enameled zones below ; 

No more for me their beauteous bloom shall glow, 
Their lingering sweetness load the morning gale ; 
Few are the slender flowerets, scentless, pale, 5 

That on their ice-clad stems all trembling blow 

Along the margin of unmelting snow ; 
Yet with unsaddened voice thy verge I hail, 

White realm of peace above the flowering line ; 
Welcome thy frozen domes, thy rocky spires ! 10 

O'er thee undimmed the moon-girt planets shine. 
On thy majestic altars fade the fires 
That filled the air with smoke of vain desires, 

And all the unclouded blue of heaven is thine ! 

THE BOYS 

1859 
Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? 15 

If there has, take him out, without making a noise. 
Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite ! 
Old time is a liar ! We're twenty to-night ! 

We're twenty ! We're twenty ! Who says we are more? 
He's tipsy, — young jackanapes ! — show him the door ! 20 

" Gray temples at twenty? " — Yes ! white if we please ! 
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze ! 

Was it snowing I spoke of ? Excuse the mistake ! 

Look close, — you will not see a sign of a flake ! 

We want some new garlands for those we have shed, — 25 

And these are white roses in place of the red. 

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, 
Of talking (in public) as if we were old ; — 



1 68 MIDDLE PERIOD 

That boy we call " Doctor," and this we call " Judge " ; 
It's a neat little fiction, — of course it's all fudge. 

That fellow's the "Speaker," — the one on the right; 

" Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? 

That's our " Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; 5 

There's the "Reverend" what's his name? — don't make me laugh. 

That boy with the grave mathematical look 

Made believe he had written a wonderful book, 

And the Royal Society thought it was true ! 

So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too ! 10 

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, 

That could harness a team with a logical chain ; 

When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, 

We called him "The Justice," but now he's " The Squire." 

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith, — 15 

Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith ; 
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, — 
Just read on his medal, " My country," " of thee ! " 

You hear that boy laughing? — You think he's all fun ; 

But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done ; 20 

The children laugh loud as they troop to his call. 

And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all ! 

Yes, we're boys, — always playing with tongue or with pen, — 
And I sometime have asked, — Shall we ever be men? 
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, 25 

Till the last dear companion drops smiling away? 

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray ! 

The stars of its winter, the dews of its May ! 

And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, 

Pear Father, take care of thy children, The Boys ! 30 



LOWELL 169 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
1819-1891 

Lowell has been fitly called the most representative American man 
of letters. He was more sensitive to the life that was throbbing about 
him than any of his contemporaries, and he reflected this life more fully 
in his writings. When he was an undergraduate at Harvard, Emerson 
was rising into fame, and Lowell in his class poem satirized him and 
the other reformers of the day ; and yet Lowell later on was to come 
into sympathy with these same reformers. His early verse, too, reflects 
the sentimentality with which Willis and his contemporaries had 
charged the literary atmosphere. Then came the first Bigloiv Papers, 
with their indignation against the Mexican War, and later the second 
series, near the close of the Civil War, which gave voice, with mingled 
bitterness and humor, to the determined attitude of the North. Again, 
in 1875, there breathes through one of his odes, Under the Old Elm, 
the spirit of reconciliation and of magnanimous praise for the valor 
of the defeated. Lowell, too, as successor of Longfellow in the chair 
of modern languages at Harvard, fitly represented the academic side of 
American letters. In his later years, as an advocate of reform in 
political life, and as the representative of the nation at the Court of St. 
James, in London, he finally emerges as a national public figure, and 
becomes, in his essays and addresses, an interpreter to the Old World 
of the ideals of American democracy. 

The early surroundings of LowelPs life were peculiarly fortunate. He 
was born at " Elmwood," an old colonial house in Cambridge, Massa- 
chusetts, which had been used as a hospital for wounded soldiers after 
the battle of Bunker Hill. He came of sound New England stock, 
with a sprinkling of ministers and lawyers in his family line. His 
father was the Rev. Charles Lowell, minister of a church in Boston. 
He was graduated from Harvard in 1838, and then went through the 
law school, but soon gave up the law for literature. His first volume 
of poems appeared three years after graduation, and this was followed 
by several other volumes, at intervals, through a long series of years. 

In 1844 Lowell married Miss Maria White, a young woman of literary 
gifts, who was also intensely interested in all the reforms that were then 
in the air. It is often asserted that Lowell, always susceptible to sur- 
rounding influences, was led by his wife to join the antislavery move- 



lyo MIDDLE PERIOD 

ment, but it is more than likely that it was his strong humanitarian 
impulses which drew him into this struggle. For a time he worked 
on an antislavery newspaper in Philadelphia, but soon returned with 
his wife to his father's house at Cambridge. Here, however, he 
continued to write for antislavery and other journals. In 1846 there 
l^egan to appear in the Boston Courier his Biglow Papers, written in 
the up-country Yankee dialect, and satirizing the motives which are 
supposed to have led to the Mexican War. These satires were well 
received by the public, and Lowell had now made a promising start as 
a professional man of letters. A series of successful lectures delivered 
in Boston at the Lowell Institute, an institution founded l^y his cousin, 
led to his appointment, in 1855, as Longfellow's successor as Smith 
professor of modern languages at Harvard. During the years that he 
held this professorship, he edited, at different times, both the Atlantic 
Monthly and the North American Revietv, and he published volumes 
of verse and literary essays ; but his most important literary production 
during this time was the second series of The Bigloiu Papers, which 
dealt with the Civil War. 

The years that followed The Biglow Papers were the most fruitful 
years of Lowell's life. In 1865 he wrote a noble ode in commemoration 
of the Harvard men who fell in battle ; and, in 1875, he wrote Under the 
Old Elm, celebrating the one hundredth anniversary of Washington's 
taking command of the American army at Cambridge. In this ode 
he showed himself too broadly patriotic to cherish any of the animosity 
bred by the Civil War. Lowell's greatest opportunity came in 1880, 
when, after serving for three years as minister to Spain, he was trans- 
ferred to the Court of St. James in London. His character broadened 
and his talents ripened during these years of diplomatic service. He 
developed, rather to the surprise of his friends, into a wise, witty, and 
wholly effective public speaker. He was in special demand in England 
for after-dinner speeches, and for occasional literary and political ad- 
dresses. His address on Democracy was a clear-sighted and forceful 
presentation to an English audience of the ideals of democratic America. 
Its freedom from boastfulness, its plain recognition of dangers, its calm 
hopefulness for the future, mark Lowell as a remarkably intelligent and 
well-poised American citizen of the great world. 

On his return to America, in 1885. Lowell settled down quietly 
among his books and friends at Cambridge. But he interested him- 
self in the independent movement in politics which sprang up during 



LOWELL 171 

the presidential campaign of 1884, — ^1 movement to reform the civil 
service, and to elevate the tone of public life. He had ceased to be a 
strict party man, because the day of intense partisanship had passed. 
During the few remaining years of his life, he was, like Bryant before 
him, commonly regarded as the first citizen of the Republic. 

As an American man of letters, LowelPs place seems secure in the 
first group ; but critics are not of one mind as to his relative position in 
this group. He lacks Emerson's intellectual steadiness and imagina- 
tive reach ; he has not Longfellow's supreme good taste and gift of 
simple melody ; and he is far behind Poe in perfection of form and 
in lyric power. But there are two qualities that Lowell possessed 
in a high degree, — patriotic fervor and a sense of humor. Both of 
these qualities find abundant expression in The Biglow Papers. In 
the commemoration odes there is the spirit of elevated and su^ained 
patriotism. Humor sparkles through the whimsical Fable for Critics, 
and is found in many of his prose essays, notably in the one On a Cer- 
tain Coiidescension in Foreigners. Finally, then, Lowell, while not our 
greatest writer, is our most representative man of letters, since his writ- 
ings reflect so variously the experiences of his generation ; and he was, 
moreover, a greater citizen than any of his literary contemporaries. 

WHAT IS SO RARE AS A DAY IN JUNE? 

FROM THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL 

For a cap and bells our lives we pay, 
Bubbles we buy with a whole soul's tasking : 

'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 
'Tis only God may be had for the asking ; 
No price is set on the lavish summer ; 5 

June may be had by the poorest comer. 

And what is so rare as a day in June ? 

Then, if ever, come perfect days ; 
Then heaven tries earth if it be in tune, 

And over it softly her warm ear lays ; 10 

Whether we look or whether we listen, 
We hear Hfe murmur or see it glisten ; 



1/2 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Every clod feels a stir of might, 

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, 
■ And, groping blindly above it for light, 

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; 
The flush of life may well be seen 5 

Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 
The cowshp startles in meadows green, 

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice. 
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean 

To be some happy creature's palace ; lo 

The little bird sits at his door in the sun, 

Atilt Hke a blossom among the leaves, 
. And lets his illumined being o'errun 

With the deluge of summer it receives ; 
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, • 15 

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; 
He sings to the wide world and she to her nest, — 
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best ? 
Now is the high tide of the year. 

And whatever of life hath ebbed away 20 

Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer. 

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; 
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it. 
We are happy now because God wills it ; 
No matter how barren the past may have been, 25 

'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green ; 
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well 
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell ; 
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing 
That skies are clear and grass is growing; 30 

The breeze comes whispering in our ear, 
That dandelions are blossoming near, 

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing. 
That the river is bluer than the sky, 
That the robin is plastering his house hard by ; 35 



LOWELL 173 

And if the breeze kept the good news back, 
For other couriers we should not lack ; 

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing, — 
And hark ! how clear bold chanticleer, 
Warmed with the new wine of the year, 5 

Tells all in his lusty crowing ! 

THE COURTIN' 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 

Fur 'z you can look or listen, 
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 

All silence an' all glisten. 10 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 

An' peeked in thru the winder, 
An' there sot Huldy all alone, 

'ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace filled the room's one side 15 

With half a cord o' wood in — 
There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 

To bake ye to a puddin'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 

Towards the pootiest, bless her, 20 

An' leetle flames danced all about 

The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 25 

Fetched back f cm Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 
Seemed warm f 'cm floor to ceilin'. 



174 MIDDLE PERIOD 

An' she looked full ez rosy' agin 
Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur ; 
A dogrose blushin' to a brook 5 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, A i, 

Clear grit an' human natur' ; 
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton 

Nor dror a furrer straighter. lo 

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 

He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em. 

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
All is, he couldn't love 'em. 

But long o' her his veins 'ould run 15 

All crinkly like curled maple ; 
The side she breshed felt full o' sun 

Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 

Ez hisn in the choir ; 20 

My ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring 
She knowed the Lord was nigher. 

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer. 

When her new meetin'-bunnet 
Felt somehow thru its crown a pair 25 

O' blue eyes sot upun it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! 

She seemed to 've gut a new soul. 
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. • 30 



LOWELL 175 

She heered a foot, an' knovved it tu, 

A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelin's flew 

Like sparks in burnt- up paper. 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, 5 

Some doubtfle o' the sekle ; 
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 

Ez though she wished him furder, 10 

An' on her apples kep' to work, 

Parin' away like murder. 

" You want to see my Pa, I s'pose? " 

•' Wal ... no ... I come dasignin' " — 

" To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es 15 

Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 

To say why gals act so or so, 

Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; 
Mebby to mean yes an' say no 

Comes nateral to women. 20 

He stood a spell on one foot fust. 

Then stood a spell on t'other, 
An' on which one he felt the wust 

He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, " I'd better call agin " ; 25 

Says she, " Think likely. Mister " ; 
Thet last word pricked him like a pin. 

An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 30 



1/6 MIDDLE PERIOD 

All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 
An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary, 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 

Snowhid in Jenooary. 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 
Too tight for all expressin', 

Tell mother see how metters stood, 
An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 

Then her red come back like the tide 
Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 

An' all I know is they was cried 
In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 



A VISION OF PEACE 

FROM THE BIGLOW PAPERS 

Under the yaller-pines I house, 15 

When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented, 
An' hear among their furry boughs 

The baskin' west-wind purr contented. 
While 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low 

Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin', 20 

The wedged wil' geese their bugles blow, 

Further an' further South retreatin'. 

Or up the slippery knob I strain 

An' see a hunderd hills like islan's 
Lift their blue woods in broken chain 25 

Out o' the sea o' snowy silence ; 



LOWELL 177 

The farm-smokes, sweetes' sight on airth, 

Slow thru the winter air a-shrinkin' 
Seem kin' o' sad, an' roun' the hearth 

Of empty places set me thinkin'. 

******** 

Rat-tat-tat-tattle thru the street 5 

I hear the drummers makin' riot, 
An' I set thinkin' o' the feet 

Thet follered once an' now are quiet, — 
White feet ez snowdrops innercent, 

Thet never knowed the paths o' Satan, 10 

Whose comin' step ther' 's ears thet won't, 

No, not lifelong, leave off awaitin'. 

Why, hain't I held 'em on my knee? 

Didn't I love to see 'em growin'. 
Three likely lads ez wal could be, 15 

Hahnsome an' brave an' not tu knowin' ? 
I set an' look into the blaze 

Whose natur', jes' like theirn, keeps climbin', 
Ez long 'z it lives, in shinin' ways. 

An' half despise myself for rhymin'. 20 

Wut's words to them whose faith an' truth 

On War's red techstone rang true metal, 
Who ventered life an' love an' youth 

For the gret prize o' death in battle ? 
To him who, deadly hurt, agen 25 

Flashed on afore the charge's thunder, 
Tippin' with fire the bolt of men 

Thet rived the rebel line asunder? 

'Tain't right to hev the young go fust. 

All throbbin' full o' gifts an' graces, 30 

Leavin' life's paupers dry ez dust 

To try an' make b'lieve fill their places : 
long's am. poems — 12 



1^8 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Nothin' but tells us wut we miss, 

Ther' 's gaps our lives can't never fay in, 

An' thet world seems so fur from this 
Lef for us loafers to grow gray in. 

My eyes cloud up for rain ; my mouth 5 

Will take to twitchin' roun' the corners ; 

I pity mothers, tu, down South, 

For all they sot among the scorners. 

Come, Peace ! not like a mourner bowed 

For honor lost an' dear ones wasted, 10 

But proud, to meet a people proud, 

With eyes thet tell o' triumph tasted ! 
Come, with han' gr'ippin' on the hilt, 

An' step thet proves ye Victory's daughter ! 
Longin' for you, our sperits wilt 15 

Like shipwrecked men's on raf's for water. 

Come while our country feels the lift 

Of a gret instinct shoutin' forwards, 
An' knows thet freedom ain't a gift 

Thet tarries long in ban's o' cowards ! 20 

Come, sech ez mothers prayed for, when 

They kissed their cross with lips thet quivered, 
An' bring fair wages for brave men, 

A nation saved, a race delivered ! 

LINCOLN 

Such was he, our Martyr-Chief, 25 

Whom late the Nation he had led. 

With ashes on her head, 
Wept with the passion of an angry grief: 
Forgive me, if from present things I turn 



LOWELL 179 

To speak what in my heart will beat and burn, 
And hang my wreath on his world-honored urn. 

Nature, they say, doth dote, 

And cannot make a man 

Save on some worn-out plan, 5 

Repeating us by rote : 
For him her Old- World moulds aside she threw, 
And, choosing sweet clay from the breast 

Of the unexhausted West, 
With stuff untainted shaped a hero new, 10 

Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, and true. 

How beautiful to see 
Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed, 
Who loved his charge, but never loved to lead ; 
One whose meek flock the people joyed to be, 15 

Not lured by any cheat of birth. 
But by his clear-grained human worth. 
And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 

They knew that outward grace is dust ; 
They could not choose but trust 20 

In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, 

And supple-tempered will 
That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. 
His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind. 
Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, 25 

A sea-mark now, now lost in vapor's blind ; 
Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, 
Fruitful and friendly for all human kind. 
Yet also nigh to heaven and loved of loftiest stars. 

Nothing of Europe here, 30 

Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, 
Ere any names of Serf and Peer 
Could Nature's equal scheme deface 
And thwart her genial will ; 
Here was a type of the true elder race, 35 



j8o middle period 

And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. 

I praise him not ; it were too late ; 
And some innative weakness there must be 
In him who condescends to victory 

Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, 5 

Safe in himself as in a fate. 
So always firmly he : 
He knew to bide his time. 
And can his fame abide, 
Still patient in his simple faith sublime, 10 

Till the wise years decide. 
Great captains, with their guns and drums, 
Disturb our judgment for the hour, 
But at last silence comes ; 
These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, 15 

Our children shall behold his fame, 
The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing man. 
Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not blame. 
New birth of our new soil, the first American. 

VIRGINIA 

FROM UNDER THE OLD ELM 

Virginia gave us this imperial man 20 

Cast in the massive mould 

Of those high-statured ages old 

Which into grander forms our mortal metal ran ," 

She gave us this unblemished gentleman : 

What shall we give her back but love and piaise; 25 

As in the dear old un.estranged days 

Before the;, inevitable wrong -began i^, , ;. ; ■;;; 

Mother of States and undiminished men, • 

Thou gavestus a country, giving him, ; 

And we owe always what, we owed thee then : 30 

The boon thou .wwldst .have snatched from us again 



LOWELL 1 8 1 

Shines as before with no abatement dim. 
A great man's memory is the only thing 
With influence to outlast the present whim 
And bind us as when here he knit our golden ring. 
All of him that was subject to the hours 5 

Lies in thy soil and makes it part of ours : 
Across more recent graves, 
Where unresentful Nature waves 
Her pennons o'er the shot-plowed sod, 
Proclaiming the sweet Truce of God, 10 

We from this consecrated plain stretch out 
Our hands as free from afterthought or doubt 
As here the united North 
Poured her embrowned manhood forth 
In welcome of our savior and thy son. 15 

• Through battle we have better learned thy worth, 
The long-breathed valor and undaunted will, 
Which, like his own, the day's disaster done, 
Could, safe in manhood, suffer and be still. 
Both thine and ours the victory hardly won ; 20 

If ever with distempered voice or pen 
We have misdeemed thee, here we take it back. 
And for the dead of both don common black. 
Be to us evermore as thou wast then. 
As we forget thou hast not always been, 25 

Mother of States and unpolluted men, 
Virginia, fitly named from England's manly queen ! 

TO THE DANDELION 

Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way. 
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, 

First pledge of bUthesome May, 30 

Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, 

High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they 



1 82 MIDDLE PERIOD 

An Eldorado in the grass have found, 

Which not the rich earth's ample round 

May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me 
Than all the prouder summer blooms may be. 

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow * 

Through the primeval hush of Indian seas. 

Nor wrinkled the lean brow 
Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; 

'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now 
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, lo 

Though most hearts never understand 

To take it at God's value, but pass by 

The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. 

Thou art my tropics and my Italy ; 
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime ; 15 

The eyes thou givest me 
Are in the heart, and heed not space of time : 

Not in mid June the golden cuirassed bee 
Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment 
In the white Hly's breezy tent, 20 

His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first 

From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. 

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, 
Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze. 

Where, as the breezes pass, 25 

The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways. 

Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, 
Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue 
That from the distance sparkle through 

Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, 30 

Where one white cloud hke a stray lamb doth move. 



LOWELL 183 

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee; 
The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, 

Who from the dark old tree 
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long. 

And I, secure in childish piety, 5 

Listened as if I heard an angel sing 
With news from heaven, which he could bring 

Fresh every day to my untainted ears 

When birds and flowers were happy peers. 

How Uke a prodigal doth nature seem, 10 

When thou, for all thy gold, so common art ! 

Thou teachest me to deem 
More sacredly of every human heart. 

Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam 
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, 15 

Did we but pay the love we owe. 

And with a child's undoubting wisdom look 

On all these Hving pages of God's book. 

« 

HEBE 

I SAW the twinkle of white feet, 
I saw the flash of robes descending ; 20 

Before her ran an influence fleet, 
That bowed my heart like barley bending. 

As, in bare fields, the searching bees 
Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, 

It led me on, by sweet degrees 25 

Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding. 

Those Graces were that seemed grim Fates ; 
With nearer love the sky leaned o'er me ; 

The long-sought Secret's golden gates 
On musical hinges swung before me/ 30 



1 84 MIDDLE PERIOD 

I saw the brimmed bowl in her grasp 
ThrilHng with godhood ; like a lover 

I sprang the proffered life to clasp ; — 
The beaker fell ; the luck was over. 

The earth has drunk the vintage up ; 
What boots it patch the goblet's splinters ? 

Can Surhmer fill the icy cup, 
Whose treacherous crystal is but winter's? 

O spendthrift haste ! await the Gods ; 
The nectar crowns the lips of Patience ; 

Haste scatters on unthankful sods 
The immortal gift in vain libations. 

Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, 
And shuns the hand would seize upon her ; 

Follow thy life, and she will sue 
To pour for thee the cup of honor. 

SHE CAME AND WENT 

As a twig trembles, which a bird 

Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, 

So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, 
The blue dome's measureless content, 

So my soul held that moment's heaven ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps 
The orchards full of bloom and scent, 

So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; ^— 
I only know she came and went. 



LOWELL 185 

An angel stood and met my gaze, 

Through the low doorway of my tent ; 
The tent is struck, the vision stays ; — 

I only know she came and went. 

Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, 5 

And life's last oil is nearly spent. 
One gush of light these eyes will brim, 

Only to think she came and went. 

AUF WIEDERSEHEN 

SUMMER 

The little gate was reached at last, 

Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; 10 

She pushed it wide, and, as she past, 
A wistful look she backward cast. 

And said, — " Auf wiedefsehen I " 

With hand on latch, a vision white 

Lingered reluctant, and again 15 

Half doubting if she did aright. 
Soft as the dews that fell that night. 

She said, — " Auf wiedersehen ! " 

The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; 

I linger in delicious pain ; 20 

Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air 
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, 

Thinks she, — " Auf wiedefsehen ! " 

'Tis thirteen years ; once more I press 

The turf that silences the lane ; 25 

I hear the rustle of her dress, 
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes, 

I hear, — " Atif iviedersehen / " 



1 86 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! 

The English words had seemed too fahi, 
But these — they drew us heart to heart, 
Yet held us tenderly apart ; 

She said, - — " Auf wiedersehen ! " 



ADDITIONAL POETS 
II 

WALT WHITMAN 

1819-1892 

Walt Whitman was born at West Hills, Long Island, New York, 
of plain but sturdy English and Dutch ancestry. When he was four 
years old his father removed to Brooklyn, where his son studied in 
the public schools. Later he learned the printer's trade, taught school, 
and edited a newspaper. His early verse attracted little attention, but 
in 1855 his Leaves 0/ Grass created much discussion. During the Civil 
War he permanently impaired his rugged health by a service of three 
years as a volunteer army nurse in and around Washington. His ex- 
periences in the war inspired a volume of poems, Drum-Taps, from 
which the three poems given here are taken. 

After the war. Whitman was appointed to a government clerkship at 
Washington, a position which he held until his health failed. His last 
years were spent at Camden, New Jersey, where he died and was buried. 
He rests beneath an imposing tomb designed by himself. 

Whitman's verse displays a strong love of nature and of human kind ; 
and through it all breathes the breath of a virile and sincere patriotism. 

O CAPTAIN ! MY CAPTAIN ! 

O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, 
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring ; 



WHITMAN 187 

But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 

the bleeding drops of red, 

Where on the deck my Captain Hes, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

Captain ! ray Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 5 
Rise up -^ for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle thrills, 
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths — for you the shores 

acrowding, 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning ; 
Here Captain ! dear father ! 

This arm beneath your head ! 10 

It is some dream that on the deck 
You've fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, 
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, 
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; 16 

Exult O shores, and ring O bells ! 
But I, with mournful tread. 

Walk the deck my Captain lies, 

Fallen cold and dead. 20 

AS TOILSOME I WANDER'D VIRGINIA'S WOODS 

As toilsome I wander'd Virginia's woods. 

To the music of rustling leaves, kick'd by my foot (for 'twas 
autumn), 

1 mark'd at the foot of a tree the grave of a soldier, 

Mortally wounded he, and buried on the retreat (easily all could 

1 understand) ; 

The halt of a midday hour, when up ! no time to lose, — yet this 
sign left, 25 

On a tablet scrawd'd and nailed on the tree by the grave, — 
Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade. 



1 88 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Long, long I muse, then on my way go wandering ; 

Many a changeful season to follow, and many a scene of life ; 

Yet at times through changeful season and scene, abrupt, alone, 

or in the crowded street. 
Comes before me the unknown soldier's grave — comes the 

inscription rude in Virginia's woods, — 
Bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade. 5 

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOORYARD BLOOM'D 

When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd, 

And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, 

I mourned, and yet shall mourn with ever returning spring. 

O ever returning Spring ! trinity sure to me you bring ; 

Lilac, blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west, 10 

And thought of him I love. 

O powerful, western, fallen star ! 

O shades of night ! O moody, tearful night ! 

O great star disappear'd ! O the black murk that hides the 

star! 
O cruel hands that hold me powerless ! O helpless soul of me ! 
O harsh surrounding cloud, that will not free my soul ! 16 

In the dooryard fronting an old farmhouse, near the whitewash 'd 
palings, 

Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of 
rich green. 

With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume 
strong I love. 

With every leaf a miracle . . . and fYom this bush in the door- 
yard, 20 

With delicate-color'd blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich 
green, 

A sprig, with its flower, I break. 



WHITMAN 189 

In the swamp, in secluded recesses, 

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. Solitary the thrush, 
The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, 
Sings by himself a song. Song of the bleeding throat ! 
Death's outlet song of life — (for well, dear brother, I know 5 
If thou wast not gifted to sing thou wouldst surely die). 

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities. 

Amid lanes, and through old woods (where lately the violets 

peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray dt^bris) ; 
Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes — passing 

the endless grass ; 
Passing the yellow-spear 'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in 

the dark-brown fields uprising ; 10 

Passing the apple tree blows of white and pink in the orchards ; 
Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, 
Night and day journeys a coffin. 

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, 
Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land, 
With the pomp of the inloop'd flags, with the cities draped in 

black, 16 

With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil'd 

women, standing. 
With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the 

night, 
With the countless torches lit — with the silent sea of faces and 

- the unbared heads, 
With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the somber faces, 
With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising 

strong and solemn ; 21 

With all- the mournful voices of the- dirges, pour'd around the 

coffin, . ... 

The dini-lit churches and the shuddering organs — • 
Where amid these you journey, 



190 MIDDLE PERIOD 

With the toiling, toiling bells' perpetual clang; 
Here ! coffin that slowly passes, 
I give you my sprig of lilac. 

******** 
Sing on there in the swamp ! 

singer bashful and tender ! I hear your notes — I hear your 

call ; 5 

1 hear — I come presently — I understand you ; 

But a moment I linger — for the lustrous star has detained me ; 
The star, my departing comrade, holds and detains me. 

how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved ? 
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has 

gone ? 10 

And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love ? 

Sea winds, blown from east and west, 
Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, 

till there on the prairies meeting : 
These, and with these, and the breath of my chant, 

1 perfume the grave of him I love. 15 

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls ? 
And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, 
To adorn the burial house of him I love ? 

Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes. 
With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke 

lucid and bright, 20 

With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking 

sun, burning, expanding the air ; 
With the fresh green herbage under foot, and the pale green 

leaves of the trees prolific ; 
In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a 

wind-dapple here and there ; 
With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the ■ 

sky, and shadows ; 



WHITMAN 



191 



And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of 

chimneys, 
And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen 

homeward returning. 

Lo ! body and soul ! this land ! 

Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying 

tides, and the ships ; 
The varied and ample land — the South and the North in the 

light — Ohio's shores, and flashing Missouri, 5 

And even the far-spreading prairies, cover'd with grass and corn. 
Lo ! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty; 
The violet and purple moon, with just-felt breezes ; 
The gentle, soft-born, measureless light ; 

The miracle, spreading, bathing all — the fulfill'd noon ; 10 

The coming eve, delicious — the welcome night, and the stars. 
Over my cities shining all, enveloping man- and land. 

Sing on ! sing on, you gray-brown bird ! 

Sing from the swamps, the recesses — pour your chant from the 
bushes ; 

Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines. 15 

Sing on, dearest brother — warble your reedy song; 

Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe. 

O liquid, and free, and tender ! 

O wild and loose to my soul ! O wondrous singer ! 

You only I hear . . . yet the star holds me (but will soon de- 
part) ; 20 

Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me. 

Now while I sat in the day, and look'd forth, 

In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, 

and the farmer preparing his crops. 
In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and 

forests. 



192 MIDDLE PERIOD 

In the heavenly aerial beauty (after the perturb'd winds, and 

the storms) ; 
Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and 

the voices of children and women, 
The many-moving sea tides, — and I saw the ships how they sail'd. 
And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all 

busy with labor, 
And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each 

with its meals and minutia of daily usages ; 5 

And the streets, how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities 

pent — lo ! then and there. 
Falling upon them all, and among them all, enveloping me with 

the rest, 
Appear'd the cloud, appeared the long black trail ; 
And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of 

death. 

Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, 10 
And the thought of death close — walking the other side of me. 
And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the 

hands of companions, 
I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not, 
Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the 

dimness. 
To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still. 15 

And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me ; 
The gray-brown bird I know, received us comrades three ; 
And he sang what seem'd the carol of death, and a verse for 

him I love. 
From deep secluded recesses, 

From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still, 20 

Came the carol of the bird. 
And the charm of the carol rapt me. 

As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night ; 
And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird. 



PETERSON 193 

HENRY PETERSON 



Publisher, editor, poet, Peterson was born in Philadelphia, where 
he ■ spent most of his life. For twenty years he was assistant editor 
of the Philadelphia Saturday Evening Post, a weekly paper founded 
by Benjamin Franklin. He published two volumes of poems, and also 
wrote several plays. 

FROM AN "ODE FOR DECORATION DAY" 

GALLANT brothers of the generous South, 
Foes for a day and brothers for all time ! 

1 charge you by the memories of our youth, 

By Yorktovi^n's field and Montezuma's clime, 
Hold our dead sacred — let them quietly rest 5 

In your unnumbered vales, where God thought best. 
Your vines and flowers learned long since to forgive. 
And o'er their graves a broidered mantle weave : 
Be you as kind as they are, and the word 
Shall reach the Northland with each summer bird, 10 

And thoughts as sweet as summer shall awake 
Responsive to your kindness, and shall make 
Our peace the peace of brothers once again. 
And banish utterly the days of pain. 

And ye, O Northmen ! be ye not outdone 15 

In generous thought and deed. 
We all do need forgiveness, every one ; 

And they that give shall find it in their need. 
Spare of your flowers to deck the stranger's grave. 

Who died for a lost cause : — 20 

A soul more daring, resolute, and brave, 

Ne'er won a world's applause. 
A brave man's hatred pauses at the tomb. 
For him some Southern home was robed in gloom, 

long's am. poems — 13 



194 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Some wife or mother looked with longing eyes 

Through the sad days and nights with tears and sighs, 

Hope slowly hardening into gaunt Despair, 

Then let your foeman's grave remembrance share : 

Pity a higher charm to Valor lends, 5 

And in the realms of Sorrow all are friends. 



WILLIAM WETMORE STORY 
1819-1895 

The poetry of Story is marked by refinement and carefiil workman- 
ship rather than by power. His fame rests chiefly upon his work as a 
sculptor. He was born at Salem, Massachusetts, was graduated from 
Harvard, and started life as a lawyer. His father was a justice of the 
United States Supreme Court. The son, however, gave up law for 
sculpture, and spent the greater part of his life in Italy, where he died. 
He published several volumes of essays and poems, one novel, and one 
play. 

10 VICTIS 

I SING the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of 

Life, — 
The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed 

in the strife ; 
Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding 

acclaim 
Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet 

of fame, ro 

But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken 

in heart. 
Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate 

part ; 
Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned 

in ashes away, 



STORY 195 

From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who 

stood at the dying of day 
With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, 

alone. 
With Death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their 

faith overthrown, 

1' While the voice of the world shouts its chorus, — its pasan for 

those who have won ; 
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze 

and the sun 5 

Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet 
Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field 

of defeat. 
In the shadow, with those who have fallen, and wounded, and 

dying, and there 
Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, 

breathe a prayer. 
Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, " They only the 

victory win, 10 

Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon 

that tempts us within ; 
Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the 

world holds on high ; 
Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight, — if 

need be, to die." 

Speak, History ! who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annals, 

and say. 
Are they those whom the world called the victors — who won the 

success of a day ? 15 

The martyrs, or Nero ? The Spartans, who fell at Thermopylae's 

tryst, 
Or the Persians and Xerxes ? His judges or Socrates ? Pilate 

or Christ? 



196 MIDDLE PERIOD 

JULIA WARD HOWE 

1819- 

Mrs. Howe was born in New York city, where her father, Samuel 
Ward, was a banker. She was married to Dr. S. G. Howe of Boston, 
and with him she edited an antislavery paper in that city. Her life has 
been a long and busy one. She has written several volumes of verse, 
travel, and biography ; and she has been an earnest advocate, both as 
a writer and as a lecturer, of woman suffrage and of prison reforms. 

BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : 

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are 

stored ; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword : 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps ; 

They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps ; 

I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. 

His day is marching on. 8 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel : 
" As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal ; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, 
Since God is marching on." 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat ; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat: 14 
Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant, my feet ! 
Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was bora across the sea, 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me : 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 

While God is marching on. 20 



PARSONS 197 

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS 

1819-1892 

The poem given below, Lines on a Bust of Dante, is the best-known 
short poem by Parsons. He also translated several cantos of Dante's 
Inferno, and he was a lifelong and sympathetic student of the great 
Italian poet. He was born in Boston and educated at the Boston 
Latin School. He was a dentist by profession, and practiced in Lon- 
don and Boston, residing in the latter city during the last twenty years 
of his life. He is the author of several volumes of verse. 

ON A BUST OF DANTE 

See, from this counterfeit of him 
Whom Arno shall remember long, 

How stern of lineament, how grim, 
The father was of Tuscan song : 
There but the burning sense of wrong, 5 

Perpetual care and scorn, abide ; 
Small friendship for the lordly throng ; 

Distrust of all the world beside. 

Faithful if this wan image be, 
No dream his life was, — but a fight ! 10 

Could any Beatrice see 
A lover in that anchorite ? 
To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight 

Who could have guessed the visions came 
Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light, 15 

In circles of eternal flame ? 

The lips as Cumae's cavern close, 
The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin. 

The rigid front, almost morose, 
But for the patient hope within, 20 



198 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Declare a life whose course hath been 
Unsullied still, though still severe, 

Which, through the wavering days of sin, 
Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. 

Not wholly such his haggard look 5 

When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, 

With no companion save his book, 
To Corvo's hushed monastic shade ; 
Where, as the Benedictine laid 

His palm upon the convent's guest, 10 

The single boon for which he prayed 

Was peace, that pilgrim's one request. 

Peace dwells not here, — this rugged face 
Betrays no spirit of repose ; 

The sullen warrior sole we trace, 15 

The marble man of many woes. 
Such was his mien when first arose 

The thought of that strange tale divine. 
When hell he peopled with his foes, 

Dread scourge of many a guilty line. 20 

War to the last he waged with all 
The tyrant canker-worms of earth ; 

Baron and duke, in hold and hall. 
Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth ; 
He used Rome's harlot for his mirth ; 25 

Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime ; 
But valiant souls of knightly worth 

Transmitted to the rolls of Time. 

O Time ! whose verdicts mock our own, 
The only righteous judge art thou ; 30 

That poor old exile, sad and lone, 
Is Latium's other Vireil now : 



O'HARA 199 

Before his name the nations bow ; 

His words are parcel of mankind, 
Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, 

The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 

THEODORE O'HARA 

1820-1867 

Lawyer, poet, editor, and soldier of fortune, O'Hara was born of 
Irish parentage at Danville, Kentucky. He served in the Mexican 
War and was wounded at Cherubusco. He was brevetted major on 
the field for gallantry. Later he joined filibustering expeditions to 
Cuba and Nicaragua. On his return, he was made a captain in the 
Second Cavalry, U.S.A., but he resigned this position and became 
editor of the Mobile Register. He also practiced law in Washington. 
At the outbreak of the Civil War he joined the Confederate army, serv- 
ing with the rank of colonel, and seeing hard service at Shiloh and in 
the seven days' fighting around Richmond. After the war he engaged 
in the cotton business at Columbus, Georgia. He lost everything by 
fire, and retired to a plantation in Alabama, where he died. In 1874 
the Kentucky legislature had his remains removed to his native state. 

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 5 

The soldier's last tattoo ; 
No more on Life's parade shall meet 

That brave and fallen few. 
On Fame's eternal camping-ground 

Their silent tents are spread, 10 

And Glory guards, with solemn round, 

The bivouac of the dead. 

No rumor of the foe's advance 

Now swells upon the wind ; 
No troubled thought at midnight haunts 15 

Of loved ones left behind ; 



200 MIDDLE PERIOD 

No vision of the morrow's strife 

The warrior's dream alarms ; 
No braying horn nor screaming fife 

At dawn shall call to arms. 

Their shivered swords are red with rust, 5 

Their plumed heads are bowed ; 
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, 

Is now their martial shroud. 
And plenteous funeral tears have washed 

The red stains from each brow, 10 

And the proud forms, by battle gashed, 

Are free from anguish now. 

The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 

The bugle's stirring blast, 
The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 15 

The din and shout, are past ; 
Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal 

Shall thrill with fierce delight 
Those breasts that nevermore may feel 

The rapture of the fight. 20 

Like the fierce northern hurricane 

That sweeps his great plateau, 
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain. 

Came down the serried foe. 
Who heard the thunder of the fray 25 

Break o'er the field beneath, 
Knew well the watchward of that day 

Was " Victory or Death." 

Long had the doubtful conflict raged 

O'er all that stricken plain, 30 

For never fiercer fight had waged 
The vengeful blood of Spain ; 



O'HARA 20 1 

And still the storm of battle blew, 

Still swelled the gory tide ; 
Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, 

Such odds his strength could bide. 

'Twas in that hour his stern command 5 

Called to a martyr's grave 
The flower of his beloved land, 

The nation's flag to save. 
By rivers of their fathers' gore 

His first-born laurels grew, lo 

And well he deemed the sons would pour 

Their lives for glory too. 

Full many a norther's breath has swept 

O'er Angostura's plain, 
And long the pitying sky has wept 15 

Above its mouldered slain. 
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight 

Or shepherd's pensive lay. 
Alone awakes each sullen height 

That frowned o'er that dread fray. 20 

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 

Ye must not slumber there. 
Where stranger steps and tongues resound 

Along the heedless air. 
Your own proud land's heroic soil 25 

Shall be your fitter grave : 
She claims from war his richest spoil — 

The ashes of her brave. 

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 

Far from the gory field, 30 

Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 

On many a bloody shield ; 



202 MIDDLE PERIOD 

The sunshine of their native sky 

Smiles sadly on them here, 
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 

The heroes' sepulcher. 

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! 

Dear as the blood ye gave ; 
No impious footstep here shall tread 

The herbage of your grave ; 
Nor shall your glory be forgot 

While Fame her record keeps, 
Or Honor points the hallowed spot 

Where Valor proudly sleeps. 

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 

In deathless song shall tell, 
When many a vanished age hath flown. 

The story how ye fell ; 
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, 

Nor time's remorseless doom. 
Shall dim one ray of glory's light 

That gilds your deathless tomb. 



THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 

1822-1872 

Read was a portrait painter by profession. He practiced his art in 
various eastern cities, but he was chiefly identified with Philadelphia. 
He is the author of several volumes of verse, and also edited a collec- 
tion of verse, Female Poets of America. His most popular poem. 
Sheridan's Ride, is spirited and patriotic, but it is lacking in poise and 
finish. The poem given below shows much higher poetic ability. 
Read was born in Chester County, Pennsylvania, and died in New 
York city. 



READ 203 

DRIFTING 

My soul to-day 

Is far away, 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; 

My winged boat, 

A bird afloat, 5 

Swings round the purple peaks remote : — 

Round purple peaks 

It sails, and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks. 

Where high rocks throw, 10 

Through deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague, and dim, 

The mountains swim ; 
While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 15 

With outstretched hands. 

The gray smoke stands 
O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 

Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles ; 20 

And yonder, bluest of the isles, 

Calm Capri waits. 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 23 

My rippling skiff 
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff ; 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 30 



204 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Under the walls 

Where swells and falls 
The Bay's deep breast at intervals, 

At peace I lie, 

Blown softly by 5 

A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild, 

Is Heaven's own child. 
With Earth and Ocean reconciled ; 

The airs I feel 10 

Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 

Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail, 15 

A joy intense, 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 20 

Where Summer sings and never dies, — 

O'erveiled with vines 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid, 25 

Are gamboling with the gamboling kid ; 

Or down the walls. 

With tipsy calls, 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher's child, 30 

With tresses wild, 



THOMPSON 205 

Under the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 

With glowing lips, 

Sings as she skips, 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 5 

Where traffic blows. 
From lands of sun to lands of snows ; 
. This happier one, — 

Its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of sun. 10 

O happy ship. 

To rise and dip. 
With the blue crystal at your lip ! 

O happy crew, 

My heart with you 15 

Sails, and sails, and sings anew ! 

No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar : 

With dreamful eyes 20 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise ! 

JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON 

1823-1873 

Thompson was bora in Richmond, Virginia, and died in New York 
city. After being graduated from the University of Virginia, he studied 
law and made his home in Richmond. He soon turned aside from the 
law, however, and became editor of the Southern Literary Messenger, 
which Poe had edited several years earlier. Under his editorship this 
journal was successful. In 1863 he went abroad in search of health. 
While in London he wrote much for the newspapers. On his return to 



206 MIDDLE PERIOD 

America, he became the skillful literary editor of the New York Even- 
ing Post, under the management of William Cullen Bryant. He held 
this position until his health failed. He is buried in Hollywood Ceme- 
tery, Richmond. His verse has never been collected, and most of it 
has been obscured by the lapse of time. 

MUSIC IN CAMP 

Two armies covered hill and plain, 

Where Rappahannock's waters 
Ran deeply crimsoned with the stain 

Of battle's recent slaughters. 

The summer clouds lay pitched like tents 5 

In meads of heavenly azure ; 
And each dread gun of the elements 

Slept in its hid embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew it made 

No forest leaf to quiver, 10 

And the smoke of the random cannonade 

Rolled slowly from the river. 

And now, where circling hills looked down 

With cannon grimly planted. 
O'er listless camp and silent town 15 

The golden sunset slanted. 

. When on the fervid air there came 
A strain — now rich, now tender; 
The music seemed itself aflame 

With day's departing splendor. 20 

A Federal band, which, eve and morn. 
Played measures brave and nimble. 

Had just struck up, with flute and horn 
And lively dash of cymbal. . .., 



THOMPSON 207 

Down flocked the soldiers to the banks, 

Till, margined by its pebbles, 
One wooded shore was blue with " Yanks," 

And one was gray with " Rebels." 

Then all was still, and then the band, 5 

With movement light and tricksy. 
Made stream and forest, hill and strand, 

Reverberate with " Dixie." 

The conscious stream with burnished glow 

Went proudly o'er its pebbles, 10 

But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 
With yelling of the Rebels. 

Again a pause, and then again 

The trumpets pealed sonorous. 
And " Yankee Doodle " was the strain 15 

To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew, 

To kiss the shining pebbles ; 
Loud shrieked the swarming Boys in Blue 

Defiance to the Rebels. 20 

And yet once more the bugles sang 

Above the stormy riot ; 
No shout upon the evening rang — 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood 25 

Poured o'er the glistening pebbles ; 
All silent now the Yankees stood. 

And silent stood the Rebels. 

No unresponsive soul had heard 

That plaintive note's appealing, 30 



208 MIDDLE PERIOD 

So deeply " Home, Sweet Home " had stirred 
The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or Blue or Gray, the soldier sees, 

As by the wand of fairy, 
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees. 

The cabin by the prairie. 

Or cold or warm, his native skies 
Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 

Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes, 
His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain 

In April's tearful weather, 
The vision vanished, as the strain 

And daylight died together. 

But memory, waked by music's art, 
Expressed in simplest numbers. 

Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, 
Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of music shines, 
That bright celestial creature. 

Who still, mid war's embattled lines, 
Gave this one touch of Nature. 



FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 

1822-1874 

Dr. Ticknor practiced medicine in Georgia, where he was born and 
where he died. His leisure was spent in cuhivating roses and in writ- 
ing verses. He is best remembered by his war poems. A volume of 
his verse was collected and edited by Paul Hamilton Hayne. 



TICKNOR 209 

LITTLE GIFFEN 

Out of the focal and foremost fire, 

Out of the hospital walls as dire ; 

Smitten of grape-shot and gangrene, 

(Eighteenth battle, and he sixteen !) 

Specter ! such as you seldom see, 5 

Little Giffen, of Tennessee ! 

" Take him and welcome ! " the surgeons said ; 

Little the doctor can help the dead ! 

So we took him ; and brought him where 

The balm was sweet in the summer air ; 10 

And we laid him down on a wholesome bed, — 

Utter Lazarus, heel to head ! 

And we watched the war with abated breath, — 

Skeleton Boy against skeleton Death. 

Months of torture, how many such ? 15 

Weary weeks of the stick and crutch ; 

And still a glint of the steel-blue eye 

Told of a spirit that wouldn't die. 

And didn't. Nay, more ! in death's despite 

The crippled skeleton " learned to write." 20 

" Dear mother," at first, of course ; and then 

" Dear captain," inquiring about the men. 

Captain's answer : " Of eighty-and-five, 

Giffen and I are left alive." 

Word of gloom from the war, one day ; 25 

Johnston pressed at the front, they say. 
Little Giffen was up and away ; 
A tear — his first — as he bade good-by , 
Dimmed the glint of his steel-blue eye. 
" I'll write, if spared ! " There was news of the fight ; 
But none of Giffen. — He did not write. 31 

long's am. poems — 14 



2IO MIDDLE PERIOD 

I sometimes fancy that, were I king 

Of the princely Knights of the Golden Ring, 

With the song of the minstrel in mine ear, 

And the tender legend that trembles here, 

I'd give the best on his bended knee, 5 

The whitest soul of my chivalry. 

For " Little Giffen," of Tennessee. 

GEORGE HENRY BOKER 

1823-1890 

Dramatist and diplomat, Boker was born in Philadelphia, where he 
spent most of his life, and where he died. After he was graduated from 
Princeton, he went abroad for travel. He was active with his pen and 
voice during the Civil War. In 1871 he was appointed United States 
minister to Turkey, and later served in the same capacity in Russia. 
Boker published several volumes of verse, but he was most successful 
as a writer of metrical dramas. His Fj-ancesca da Rimini has held the 
stage for many years. It not only has poetic merit, but it shows knowl- 
edge of stage-craft. His ballads, especially the war poems, are justly 
popular. 

A BALLAD OF SIR JOHN FRANKLIN 

O, v^'HiTHER sail you, Sir John Franklin ? 

Cried a whaler in Baffin's Bay. 
To know if between the land and the pole 10 

I may find a broad sea way. 

I charge you back. Sir John Franklin, 

As you would live and thrive ; 
For between the land and the frozen pole 

No man may sail alive. 15 

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 

And spoke unto his men : 
Half England is wrong, if he be right ; 

Bear off to westward then. 



BOKER 211 

O, whither sail you, brave EngHshman ? 

Cried the little Esquimau. 
Between your land and the polar star 

My goodly vessels go. 

Come down, if you would journey there, 5 

The little Indian said ; 
And change your cloth for fur clothing, 

Your vessel for a sled. 

But lightly laughed the stout Sir John, 

And the crew laughed with him too : — 10 

A sailor to change from ship to sled, 

I ween, were something new. 

All through the long, long polar day. 

The vessels westward sped ; 
And wherever the sail of Sir John was blown, 15 

The ice gave way and fled : — 

Gave way with many a hollow groan, 

And with many a surly roar. 
But it murmured and threatened on every side. 

And closed where he sailed before. 20 

Ho ! see ye not, my merry men. 

The broad and open sea ? 
Bethink ye what the whaler said. 
Think of the little Indian's sled ! 

The crew laughed out in glee. 25 

Sir John, Sir John, 'tis bitter cold. 

The scud drives on the breeze, 
The ice comes looming from the north, 

The very sunbeams freeze. 



212 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Bright summer goes, dark winter comes, — 

We cannot rule the year ; 
But long ere summer's sun goes down, 

On yonder sea we'll steer. 

The dripping icebergs dipped and rose, 
And floundered down the gale ; 

The ships were stayed, the yards were manned, 
And furled the useless sail. 

The summer's gone, the winter's come, — 

We sail not on yonder sea : 
Why sail we not. Sir John Franklin ? — 

A silent man was he. 

The summer goes, the winter comes, — 

We cannot rule the year : 
I ween we cannot rule the ways. 

Sir John, wherein we'd steer. 

The cruel ice came floating on, 

And closed beneath the lee, 
Till the thickening waters dashed no more : 
'Twas ice around, behind, before — 

My God ! there is no sea ! 

What think you of the whaler now ? 

What of the Esquimau ? 
A sled were better than a ship. 

To cruise through ice and snow. 

Down sank the baleful crimson sun, 

The northern light came out. 
And glared upon the ice-bound ships, 

And shook its spears about. 



BOKER 213 

The snow came down, storm breeding storm, 

And on the decks was laid, 
Till the weary sailor, sick at heart. 

Sank down beside his spade. 

Sir John, the night is black and long, 5 

The hissing wind is bleak, 
The hard, green ice as strong as death : — 

I prithee, Captain, speak! 

The night is neither bright nor short, 

The singing breeze is cold, • — iq 

The ice is not so strong as hope, 

The heart of man is bold ! 

What hope can scale this icy wall, 

High over the main flagstaff ? 
Above the ridges the wolf and bear 15 

Look down, with a patient, settled stare, 

Look down on us and laugh. 

The summer went, the winter came, — 

We could not rule the year ; 
But summer will melt the ice again, 20 

And open a path to the sunny main, 

Whereon our ships shall steer. 

The winter went, the summer went. 

The winter came around ; 
But the hard, green ice was strong as death, 25 

And the voice of hope sank to a breath, 

Yet caught at every sound. 

Hark ! heard you not the noise of guns ? — 

And there, and there, again ? 
'Tis some uneasy iceberg's roar, 30 

As he turns in the frozen main. 



214 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Hurra ! Hurra ! the Esquimaux 

Across the ice fields steal : 
God give them grace for their charity ! — 

Ye pray for the silly seal. 

Sir John, where are the English fields, 5 

^nd where are the English trees, 
And where are the little English flowers 

That open in the breeze ? 

Be still, be still, my brave sailors ! 

You shall see the fields again, 10 

And smell the scent of the opening flowers, 

The grass, and the waving grain. 

Oh ! when shall I see my orphan child ? 

My Mary Avaits for me. 
Oh ! when shall I see my old mother, 15 

And pray at her trembling knee ? 

Be still, be still, my brave sailors ! 

Think not such thoughts again. 
But a tear froze slowly on his cheek : 

He thought of Lady Jane. 20 

Ah ! bitter, bitter grows the cold, 

The ice grows more and more ; 
More settled stare the wolf and bear, 

More patient than before. 

O, think you, good Sir John Franklin, 25 

We'll ever see the land ? 
'Twas cruel to send us here to starve, 

Without a helping hand. 



BOKER 2 I 5 

'Twas cruel, Sir John, to send us here, 

So far from help or home, 
To starve and freeze on this lonely sea : 
I ween the lords of the Admiralty 

Would rather send than come. 5 

Oh ! whether we starve to death alone. 

Or sail to our own country. 
We have done what man has never done — 
The truth is founded, the secret won — 

We passed the Northern Sea ! lo 

DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER 

Close his eyes ; his work is done ! 
What to him is friend or foeman, 
Rise of moon, or set of sun. 

Hand of man, or kiss of woman ? 

Lay him low, lay him low, 15 

In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

As man may, he fought his fight, 

Proved his truth by his endeavor ; 20 

Let him sleep in solemn night, 
Sleep forever and forever. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 25 

Lay him low ! 

Fold him in his country's stars. 

Roll the drum and fire the voile)'' ! 
What to him are all our wars. 

What but death bemocking folly ? 30 



2l6 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Lay him low, lay him low, 
In the clover or the snow ! 
What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

Leave him to God's watching eye, 5 

Trust him to the hand that made him. 
Mortal love weeps idly by : 

God alone has power to aid him. 
Lay him low, lay him low. 
In the clover or the snow ! 10 

What cares he ? he cannot know : 
Lay him low ! 

BAYARD TAYLOR 

1825-1878 

Very few American literary men have led such a restless and labori- 
ous life as Bayard Taylor. He was born and brought up in a small 
Quaker town in Pennsylvania. From his early youth he was ambitious 
to be a poet and to travel. His verses began to appear in newspapers 
when he was sixteen, and he published a volume of poems before he 
was twenty. He tramped through Europe for two years, enduring 
many hardships, and wrote a popular book about his experiences. He 
also lived the life of a gold digger in California. Whatever he saw or 
experienced he put into newspaper articles or books of travel ; and few 
men traveled so much. Many novels and several volumes of verse also 
came from his pen. He was tireless, quick-witted, versatile, and had 
a wide circle of friends and acquaintances among the brighter spirits 
of his time. In 1878 he was appointed United States minister to Ger- 
many, where he died not long after his arrival, having heroically endured 
great physical pain. 

BEDOUIN SONG 

From the Desert I come to thee 
On a stallion shod with fire ; 



TAYLOR 217 

And the winds are left behind 

In the speed of my desire. 
Under thy window I stand, 

And the midnight hears my cry : 
I love thee, I love but thee, 5 

With a love that shall not die 
Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars a7'e old, 
And the leaves of the Judgment 

Book u7ifold ! 10 

Look from thy window and see 

My passion and my pain ; 
I lie on the sands below, 

And I faint in thy disdain. 
Let the night winds touch thy brow 15 

With the heat of my burning sigh, 
And melt thee to hear the vow 
Of a love that shall not die 
Till the sun g7'ows cold, 

And the stai's are old, 20 

And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold ! 

My steps are nightly driven, 
By the fever in my breast. 
To hear from thy lattice breathed 25 

The word that shall give me rest. 
Open the door of thy heart, 

And open thy chamber door. 
And my kisses shall teach thy lips 

The love that shall fade no more 30 

Till the sun grows cold, 
And the stars are old. 
And the leaves of the Judgment 
Book unfold f 



2l8 MIDDLE PERIOD 

AMERICA 

FROM THE NATIONAL ODE, JULY 4, 1876 

Foreseen in the vision of sages, 

Foretold when martyrs bled, 
She was born of the longing of ages, 
By the truth of the noble dead 
And the faith of the living fed ! 5 

No blood in her lightest veins 
Frets at remembered chains, 
Nor shame of bondage has bowed her head. 
In her form and features still 

The unblenching Puritan will, 10 

Cavalier honor, Huguenot grace. 
The Quaker truth and sweetness, 
And the strength of the danger-girdled race 
Of Holland, blend in a proud completeness. 
From the homes of all, where her being began, 15 

She took what she gave to Man ; 
Justice, that knew no station, 

Belief, as soul decreed. 
Free air for aspiration. 
Free force for independent deed ! 20 

She takes, but to give again. 
As the sea returns the rivers in rain ; 
And gathers the chosen of her seed 
From the hunted of every crown and creed. 

Her Germany dwells by a gentler Rhine ; 25 

Her Ireland sees the old sunburst shine ; 
Her France pursues some stream divine ; 
Her Norway keeps his moufitain pine ; 
Her Italy waits by the western brine ; 

And, broad-based under all, 30 

Is planted England's oaken-hearted mood, 
As rich in fortitude 



STODDARD 219 

As e'er went worldward from the island-wall ! 

Fused in her candid light, 
To one strong race all races here unite ; 
Tongues melt in hers, hereditary foemen 
Forget their sword and slogan, kith and clan. 5 

'Twas glory, once, to be a Roman : 
She makes it glory, now, to be a man ! 

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 

1825-1903 

Stoddard was born at Hingham. Massachusetts. His father was a 
sea captain, and was lost at sea. He removed to New York in 1835 
with his mother, where he lived the greater part of his long and busy 
life. His early education was scant, but he became a diligent reader of 
the best English poets. He soon began to contribute both prose and 
verse to the newspapers and magazines, and this was kept up through 
a long series of years. He is the author of many volumes of poems 
and essays, but during his maturer years his reputation rested mainly 
upon his work as a journalist. For over twenty years he was the liter- 
ary editor of the New York Mail and Express. In his last years he 
was a venerable and conspicuous figure in the literary circles of New 
York. 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN^ 

Not as when some great Captain falls 
In battle, where his Country calls, 

Beyond the struggling lines 10 

That push his dread designs 

To doom, by some stray ball struck dead : 
Or, in the last charge, at the head 

Of his determined men. 

Who must be victors then. 15 

1 From Poetical Writings. Copyright, 1880. Published by Charles Scrib- 
ner's Sons. 



220 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Nor as when sink the civic great, 
The safer pillars of the State, 

Whose calm, mature, wise words 

Suppress the need of swords. 

With no such tears as e'er were shed 5 

Above the noblest of our dead 

Do we to-day deplore 

The Man that is no more. 

Our sorrow hath a wider scope. 

Too strange for fear, too vast for hope, 10 

A wonder, blind and dumb, 

That waits — what is to come ! 

Not more astounded had we been 
If Madness, that dark night, unseen, 

Had in our chambers crept, 15 

And murdered while we slept ! 

We woke to find a mourning earth, 
Our Lares shivered on the hearth. 

The roof -tree fallen, all 

That could affright, appall ! 20 

Such thunderbolts, in other lands, 
Have smitten the rod from royal hands, 

But spared, with us, till now. 

Each laureled Caesar's brow. 

No Caesar he whom we lament, 25 

A Man without a precedent, 

Sent, it would seem, to do 

His work, and perish, too. 



STODDARD 221 

Not by the weary cares of State, 
The endless tasks, which will not wait, 

Which, often done in vain, 

Must yet be done again : 

Not in the dark, wild tide of war, 5 

Which rose so high, and rolled so far, 

Sweeping from sea to sea 

In awful anarchy : 

Four fateful years of mortal strife, 

Which slowly drained the nation's life, 10 

(Yet for each drop that ran 

There sprang an armed man !) 

Not then ; but when, by measures meet, 
By victory, and by defeat, 

By courage, patience, skill, 15 

The people's fixed " We will / " 

Had pierced, had crushed Rebellion dead, 
Without a hand, without a head, 

At last, when all was well, 

He fell, O how he fell ! ao 

The time, the place, the stealing shape, 
The coward shot, the swift escape. 

The wife — the widow's scream, — 

It is a hideous Dream ! 

A dream ? What means this pageant, then ? 25 

These multitudes of solemn men, 

Who speak not when they meet, 

But throng the silent street ? 



222 MIDDLE PERIOD 

The flags half-mast that late so high 
Flaunted at each new victory? 

(The stars no brightness shed, 

But bloody looks the red !) 

The black festoons that stretch for miles, 5 

And turn the streets to funeral aisles ? 

(No house too poor to show 

The nation's badge of woe.) 

The cannon's sudden, sullen boom, 

The bells that toll of death and doom, 10 

The rolling of the drums. 

The dreadful car that comes ? 

Cursed be the hand that fired the shot. 
The frenzied brain that hatched the plot, 

Thy country's Father slain 15 

By thee, thou worse than Cain ! 

Tyrants have fallen by such as thou, 
And good hath followed — may it now ! 

(God lets bad instruments 

Produce the best events.) 20 

But he, the man we mourn to-day, 
No tyrant was : so mild a sway 

In one such weight who bore 

Was never known before. 

Cool should he be, of balanced powers, 25 

The ruler of a race like ours, 

Impatient, headstrong, wild, 

The Man to guide the Child. 



STODDARD 223 

And this he was, who most unfit 
(So hard the sense of God to hit), 

Did seem to fill his place ; 

With such a homely face. 

Such rustic manners, speech uncouth, 5 

(That somehow blundered out the truth), 

Untried, untrained to bear 

The more than kingly care. 

Ah ! And his genius put to scorn 

The proudest in the purple born, 10 

Whose wisdom never grew 

To what, untaught, he knew, 

The People, of whom he was one : 
No gentleman, like Washington, 

(Whose bones, methinks, make room, 15 

To have him in their tomb !) 

A laboring man, with horny hands, 
Who swung the ax, who tilled his lands, 

Who shrank from nothing new, 

But did as poor men do. 20 

One of the People ! Born to be 
Their curious epitome ; 

To share yet rise above 

Their shifting hate and love. 

O honest face, which all men knew ! 25 

O tender heart, but known to few ! 

O wonder of the age. 

Cut off by tragic rage ! 



224 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Peace ! Let the long procession come, 
For hark, the mournful, muffled drum. 

The trumpet's wail afar, 

And see, the awful car ! 

Peace ! Let the sad procession go, 
While cannon boom and bells toll slow. 

And go, thou sacred car, 

Bearing our woe afar ! 

Go, darkly borne, from State to State, 

Whose loyal, sorrowing cities wait i 

To honor all they can 

The dust of that good man. 

Go, grandly borne, with such a train 
As greatest kings might die to gain. 

The just, the wise, the brave, 15 j 

Attend thee to the grave. 

And you, the soldiers of our wars. 
Bronzed veterans, grim with noble scars. 

Salute him once again. 

Your late commander — slain ! 2 

So sweetly, sadly, sternly goes 
The Fallen to his last repose. 

Beneath no mighty dome, 

But in his modest home ; 

The churchyard where his children rest, 2 

The quiet spot that suits him best, 

There shall his grave be made, 

And there his bones be laid. 



FINCH 225 



And there his countrymen shall come, 

With memory proud, with pity dumb, 

And strangers far and near, 

For many and many a year. 

For many a year and many an age, 
While History on her ample page 

The virtues shall enroll 

Of that Paternal Soul. 



FRANCIS MILES FINCH 

1827- 

The author of this very popular poem was born at Ithaca, New York. 
In 1849 h^ w^s graduated from Yale, where he was the class poet. After 
practicing law in Ithaca for several years, he was elected a justice of 
the New York Court of Appeals. In 1892 he was appointed dean of 
the law school of Cornell University. 

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 

By the flow of the inland river, 

Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 10 

Where the blades of the grave grass quiver, 
Asleep are the ranks of the dead : 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment day ; 
Under the one, the Blue, 15 

Under the other, the Gray. 

These in the robings of glory, 

Those in the gloom of defeat, 
All with the battle-blood gory, 

In the dusk of eternity meet : 20 

long's am. poems — 15 



226 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 
Under the laurel, the Blue, 

Under the willow, the Gray. 

From the silence of sorrowful hours 5 

The desolate mourners go, 
Lovingly laden with flowers 

Alike for the friend and the foe : 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment day; 10 

Under the roses, the Blue, 

Under the lilies, the Gray. 

So with an equal splendor. 

The morning sun rays fall, 
With a touch impartially tender, 15 

On the blossoms blooming for all : 
Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 
Broidered with gold, the Blue, 

Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 20 

So, when the summer calleth, 
On forest and field of grain, 
With an equal murmur falleth 
The cooling drip of the rain : 

Under the sod and the dew, 25 

Waiting the judgment day ; 
Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
Wet with the rain, the Gray. 

Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 

The generous deed was done, 30 

In the storm of the years that are fading 

No braver battle was won : 



TROWBRIDGE 22/ 

Under the sod and the dew, 

Waiting the judgment day ; 
Under the blossoms, the Blue, 

Under the garlands, the Gray. 

No more shall the war cry sever, 5 

Or the winding rivers be red ; 
They banish our anger forever 

When they laurel the graves of our dead ! 
Under the sod and the dew. 

Waiting the judgment day : 10 

Love and tears for the Blue, 
Tears and love for the Gray. 



JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE 

1827- 

A POPULAR writer of juvenile fiction, as well as the author of two or 
three volumes of verse, Trowbridge was born on a farm at Ogden, New 
York. His educational advantages were not of the best ; but he showed 
early an aptitude for journalism. He was in New York for a time, but 
soon removed to Boston, where he has spent a long life in editorial 
and other literary work. 

THE VAGABONDS 

We are two travelers, Roger and I. 

Roger's my dog. -^ Come here, you scamp ! 
Jump for the gentleman, — mind your eye ! 15 

Over the table, — look out for the lamp ! 
The rogue is growing a little old ; 

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, 
And slept outdoors when nights were cold, 

And ate and drank — -and starved — together. .. 20 



228 MIDDLE PERIOD 

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you 1 

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! 

The paw he holds up there's been frozen), 
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle 5 

(This outdoor business is bad for strings). 
Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, 

And Roger and I set up for kings ! 

No, thank ye, Sir, — I never drink ; 

Roger and I are exceedingly moral, — lo 

Aren't we, Roger ? — See him wink ! — 

Well, something hot, then, — we won't quarrel. 
He's thirsty, too, — see him nod his head ? 

What a pity. Sir, that dogs can't talk ! 
He understands every word that's said, — 15 

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. 

The truth is. Sir, now I reflect, 

I've been so sadly given to grog, 
I wonder I've not lost the respect 

(Here's to you. Sir !) even of my dog. 20 

But he sticks by, through thick and thin ; 

And this old coat, with its empty pockets, 
And rags that smell of tobacco and gin. 

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 

There isn't another creature living 25 

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, 
So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, 

To such a miserable, thankless master ! 
No, Sir ! — see him wag his tail and grin ! 

By George ! it makes my old eyes water ! 30 

That is, there's something in this gin 

That chokes a fellow. But no matter ! 



TROWBRIDGE 229 

We'll have some music, if you're willing, 

And Roger (hem ! what a plague a cough is. Sir !) 
Shall march a little — Start, you villain ! 

Paws up ! Eyes front ! Salute your officer ! 
'Bout face ! Attention ! Take your rifle ! 5 

(Some dogs have arms, you see !) Now hold your 
Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle, 

To aid a poor old patriot soldier ! 

March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel shakes 

When he stands up to hear his sentence. 10 

Now tell us how many drams it takes 

To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
Five yelps, — that's five ; he's mighty knowing ! 

The night's before us, fill the glasses ! — 
Quick, Sir! I'm ill, — my brain is going! — 15 

Some brandy, — thank you, — there ! — it passes ! 

Why not reform ? That's easily said ; 

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, 
Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread. 

And scarce remembering what meat meant, 20 

That my poor stomach's past reform ; 

And there are times when, mad with thinking, 
I'd sell out heaven for something warm 

To prop a horrible inward sinking. 

Is there a way to forget to think ? 25 

At your age. Sir, home, fortune, friends, 
A dear girl's love, — but I took to drink, — 

The same old story ; you know how it ends. 
If you could have seen these classic features, — 

You needn't laugh. Sir ; they were not then 30 

Such a burning libel on God's creatures : 

I was one of your handsome men ! 



230 MIDDLE PERIOD 

If you had seen her^ so fair and young, 

Whose head was happy on this breast ! 
If you could have heard the songs I sung 

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed 
That ever I, Sir, should be straying 5 

From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
Ragged and penniless, and playing 

To you to-night for a glass of grog ! 

She's married since, — a parson's wife : 

'Twas better for her that we should part, lo 

Better the soberest, prosiest life 

Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
I have seen her ? Once : I was weak and spent 

On the dusty road : a carriage stopped : 
But little she dreamed, as on she went, 15 

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped ! 

You've set me talking. Sir ; I'm sorry ; 

It makes me wild to think of the change ! 
What do you care for a beggar's story ? 

Is it amusing? you find it strange? 20 

I had a mother so proud of me ! 

'Twas well she died before. — Do you know 
If the happy spirits in heaven can see 

The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 

Another glass, and strong, to deaden 25 

This pain ; then Roger and I will start. 
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden. 

Aching thing in place of a heart ? 
He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could. 

No doubt remembering things that were, — 30 

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, 

And himself a sober, respectable cur. 



► 



PRESTON 231 

I'm better now ; that glass was warming. — 

You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
We must be fiddling and performing 

For supper and bed, or starve in the street. — 
Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? 5 

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free. 
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink : — 

The sooner, the better for Roger and me ! 

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON 

1820-1897 

Mrs. Preston was the daughter of the Rev. Dr. Junkin, founder of 
Lafayette College. She was married to Colonel John T. L. Preston, of 
Lexington, Virginia, where she spent the greater part of her life. For 
many years she was a frequent contributor, both in prose and verse, to 
the periodicals of the day. Her verses have been gathered into several 
volumes. She was born in Philadelphia, and died in Baltimore. 

A GRAVE IN HOLLYWOOD CEMETERY, RICHMOND 

(J. R. T.) 

I READ the marble-lettered name. 

And half in bitterness I said : 10 

" As Dante from Ravenna came, 

Our poet came from exile — dead." 
And yet, had it been asked of him 

\Vhere he would rather lay his head. 
This spot he would have chosen. Dim 15 

The city's hum drifts o'er his grave. 
And green above the hollies wave 
Their jagged leaves, as when a boy. 

On bhssful summer afternoons. 

He came to sing the birds his runes, 20 

And tell the river of his joy. 



232 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Who dreams that in his wanderings wide, 
By stern misfortunes tossed and driven, 
His soul's electric strands were riven 
From home and country ? Let betide 
What might, what would, his boast, his pride, 5 

Was in his stricken motherland, 

That could but bless and bid him go, 
Because no crust was in her hand 

To stay her children's need. We know 
The mystic cable sank too deep 10 

For surface storm or stress to strain. 
Or from his answering heart to keep 

The spark from flashing back again ! 

Think of the thousand mellow rhymes. 

The pure idyllic passion-flowers, 15 

Wherewith, in far-gone, happier times, 

He garlanded this South of ours. 
Provengal-like, he wandered long. 

And sang at many a stranger's board, 
Yet 'twas Virginia's name that poured 20 

The tenderest pathos through his song. 
We owe the Poet praise and tears, 

Whose ringing ballad sends the brave, 
Bold Stuart riding down the years — 

What have we given him ? Just a grave ! 25 



STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER 
1826-1864 

Foster was born in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, and died in New York 
city. He was a musical composer, and wrote both the music and the 
words of Old Folks at Home, The Suwanee River, and many other 
popular negro melodies. 



FOSTER 233 

MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME, GOOD NIGHT 

The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home ; 

'Tis summer, the darkies are gay ; 
The corn-top's ripe, and the meadow's in the bloom, 

While the birds make music all the day. 
The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, 5 

All merry, all happy and bright ; 
By-'n'-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door : — 
Then my old Kentucky home, good night ! 
Weep no more, my lady, 

O, weep no more to-day ! 10 

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 
For the old Kentucky home, far away. 

They hunt no more for the possum and the coon, 

On the meadow, the hill, and the shore ; 
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, 15 

On the bench by the old cabin door. 
The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart. 

With sorrow, where all was delight ; 
The time has come when the darkies have to part : — 

Then my old Kentuck}' home, good night ! 20 

The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, 

Wherever the darky may go ; 
A few more days, and the trouble all will end. 

In the field where the sugar canes grow, 
A few more days for to tote the weary load, 25 

No matter, 'twill never be light ; 
A few more days till we totter on the road : — 
Then my old Kentucky home, good night ! 
Weep no more, my lady, 

O, weep no more to-day ! 30 

We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 
For the old Kentucky home, far away. 



234 MIDDLE PERIOD ' 

WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE 

1826-1863 

General Lytle was born at Cincinnati, Ohio, and fell at the battle 
of Chickamauga, in 1863. He had also served in the Mexican War. For 
gallant conduct in battle he was made brigadier general of volunteers, tx 
A volume of his poems was published after his death. | 

ANTONY TO CLEOPATRA 

I AM dying, Egypt, dying ! 

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast. 
And the dark Plutonian shadows 

Gather on the evening blast ; 
Let thine arm, O Queen, enfold me, 5 

Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear, 
Listen to the great heart secrets 

Thou, and thou alone, must hear. 

Though my scarred and veteran legions 

Bear their eagles high no more, 10 

And my wrecked and scattered galleys 

Strew dark Actium's fatal shore ; 
Though no glittering guards surround me, 

Prompt to do their master's will, 
I must perish like a Roman, 15 

Die the great Triumvir still. 

Let not Caesar's servile minions 

Mock the lion thus laid low ; 
'Twas no foeman's arm that felled him, 

'Twas his own that struck the blow : 20 

His who, pillowed on thy bosom, 

Turned aside from glory's ray — 
His who, drunk with thy caresses. 

Madly threw a world away. 



TIMROD 235 

Should the base plebeian rabble 

Dare assail my name at Rome, 
Where the noble spouse Octavia 

Weeps within her widowed home, 
Seek her ; say the gods bear witness, — 5 

Altars, augurs, circling wings, — 
That her blood, with mine commingled, 

Yet shall mount the thrones of kings. 

And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian — 

Glorious sorceress of the Nile ! ro 

Light the path to Stygian horrors, 

With the splendor of thy smile ; 
Give the Caesar crov/ns and arches, 

Let his brow the laurel twine : 
I can scorn the senate's triumphs, 15 

Triumphing in love like thine. 

I am dying, Egypt, dying ! 

Hark ! the insulting foeman's cry ; 
They are coming — quick, my falchion ! 

Let me front them ere I die. 20 

Ah, no more amid the battle 

Shall my heart exulting swell ; 
Isis and Osiris guard thee — 

Cleopatra — Rome — farewell ! 

HENRY TIMROD 

1829-1867 

TiMROD was born in Charleston, South Carolina, where his father 
was a bookbinder and a writer of verses. He studied for a time in 
the University of Georgia, and then began the study of law, but gave 
it up for teaching. During the Civil War he was war correspondent 
of the Charleston Mercury, and also wrote stirring war verses. After 



236 MIDDLE PERIOD 

the war he fell a prey to poverty and disease, and died of consumption 
at Columbia. A volume of his poems appeared in i860, and it was 
republished several years afterward, with a memoir of the author by 
Paul H. Hayne. 

CHARLESTON ^ 

Calm as that second summer which precedes 

The first fall of the snow, 
In the broad sunlight of heroic deeds, 

The city bides the foe. 

As yet, behind their ramparts, stern and proud, 5 

Her bolted thunders sleep, — 
Dark Sumter, like a battlemented cloud. 

Looms o'er the solemn deep. 

No Calpe frowns from lofty cliff or scaur 

To guard the holy strand ; 10 

But Moultrie holds in leash her dogs of war 

Above the level sand. 

And down the dunes a thousand guns lie couched, 

Unseen, beside the flood, — 
Like tigers in some Orient jungle crouched, 15 

That wait and watch for blood. 

Meanwhile, through streets still echoing with trade, 

Walk grave and thoughtful men, 
Whose hands may one day wield the patriot's blade 

As lightly as the pen. 20 

And maidens, with such eyes as would grow dim 

Over a bleeding hound, 
Seem each one to have caught the strength of him 

Whose sword she sadly bound. 

1 This and the following poem are from the Memorial Edition of Timrod's 
Poems, B. F. Johnson Publishing Company, Richmond, Virginia. 



TIMROD 237 

Thus girt without and garrisoned at home, 

Day patient following day, 
Old Charleston looks from roof and spire and dome, 

Across her tranquil bay. 

Ships, through a hundred foes, from Saxon lands 5 

And spicy Indian ports, 
Bring Saxon steel and iron to her hands. 

And summer to her courts. 

But still, along yon dim Atlantic line. 

The only hostile smoke 10 

Creeps like a harmless mist above the brine, 

From some frail floating oak. 

Shall the spring dawn, and she, still clad in smiles, 

And with an unscathed brow, 
Rest in the strong arms of her palm-crowned isles, 15 

As fair and free as now ? 

We know not ; in the temple of the Fates 

God has inscribed her doom : 
And, all untroubled in her faith, she waits 

The triumph or the tomb. 20 

— April, 1863. 

AT MAGNOLIA CEMETERY 

Sleep sweetly in your humble graves, 

Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ; 
Though yet no marble column craves 

The pilgrim here to pause. 

In seeds of laurel in the earth 25 

The blossom of your fame is blown, 
And somewhere, waiting for its birth, 

The shaft is in the stone ! 



238 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years 

Which keep in trust your storied tombs, 

Behold ! your sisters bring their tears, 
And these memorial blooms. 

Small tributes ! but your shades will smile 5 

More proudly on these wreaths to-day. 

Than when some cannon-moulded pile 
Shall overlook this bay. 

Stoop, angels, hither from the skies I 

There is no holier spot of ground 10 

Than where defeated valor lies, 

By mourning beauty crowned. 

— Charleston, 1867. 

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 

1830-1886 

Hayne was born in Charleston, South Carolina. His father was a 
lieutenant in the United States Navy, and his uncle was Robert Y. 
Hayne, senator from South Carolina, one of whose speeches drew from 
Webster the famous "reply." Paul Hayne was graduated from 
Charleston College, studied law, but soon became the editor of Rtis- 
seWs Magazine at Charleston. During the war he served, with the rank 
of colonel, on the staff of Governor Pickens. He was also one of the 
favorite war-time poets on the Southern side. After the war, by which 
he lost his house and library, he removed to " Copse Hill," near Au- 
gusta, Georgia, where he lived simply and industriously until his death. 
He issued several volumes of poems during his lifetime. Of quiet 
temper and affable ways, he was greatly beloved by a large circle of 
literary friends in all parts of the country. 

A LITTLE WHILE I FAIN WOULD LINGER YET 

A LITTLE while (my life is almost set !) 

I fain would pause along the downward way, 

Musing an hour in this sad sunset ray, 15 



HAYNE 239 

While, Sweet ! our eyes with tender tears are wet : 
A little hour I fain would linger yet. 

A little while I fain would linger yet, 

All for love's sake, for love that cannot tire ; 

Though fervid youth be dead, with youth's desire, 5 

And hope has faded to a vague regret, 

A little while I fain would linger yet, 

A little while I fain would linger here : 

Behold ! who knows what strange, mysterious bars 
'Twixt souls that love may rise in other stars ? 10 

Nor can love deem the face of death is fair : 

A little while I still would linger here. 

A little while I yearn to hold thee fast, 

Hand locked in hand, and loyal heart to heart; 

(O pitying Christ ! those woeful words, " We part ! ") 15 

So ere the darkness fall, the light be past, 

A little while I fain would hold thee fast. 

A little while, when light and twilight meet, — 
Behind, our broken years ; before, the deep 
Weird wonder of the last unfathomed sleep, — 20 

A little while I still would clasp thee. Sweet, 

A little while, when night and twilight meet. 

A little while I fain would linger here ; 

Behold ! who knows what soul-dividing bars 

Earth's faithful loves may part in other stars ? 25 

Nor can love deem the face of death is fair : 

A little while I still would linger here. 



240 MIDDLE PERIOD 

THE MOCKING BIRD 

(AT NIGHT) 

A GOLDEN pallor of voluptuous light 

Filled the warm southern night : 

The moon, clear orbed, above the sylvan scene 

Moved like a stately queen. 

So rife with conscious beauty all the while, 5 

What could she do but smile 

At her own perfect loveliness below, 

Glassed in the tranquil flow 

Of crystal fountains and unruffled streams ? 

Half lost in waking dreams, 10 

As down the loneliest forest dell I strayed, 

Lo ! from a neighboring glade, 

Flashed through the drifts of moonshine, swiftly came 

A fairy shape of flame. 

It rose in dazzling spirals overhead, 15 

Whence to wild sweetness wed. 

Poured marvelous melodies, silvery trill on trill ;' 

The very leaves grew still 

On the charmed trees to hearken ; while for me. 

Heart-trilled to ecstasy, 20 

I followed — followed the bright shape that flew. 

Still circling up the blue, 

Till as a fountain that has reached its height, 

Falls back in sprays of light 

Slowly dissolved, so that enrapturing lay, 25 

Divinely melts away 

Through tremulous spaces to a music-mist. 

Soon by the fitful breeze 

How gently kissed 

Into remote and tender silences. 30 



STEDMAN 241 

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 

1833- 

Financier, poet, and literary editor, Mr. Stedman is one of the most 
versatile men of his generation. He was born at Hartford, Connecti- 
cut, and studied at Yale, where he won a first prize by a poem on PVest- 
minstej- Abbey. After trying his hand at local journalism, he went to 
New York and did work for the Tribune under Horace Greeley. He 
was war correspondent for the World from 1861-1863. In 1864 he was 
connected with the construction and financiering of the first Pacific 
railway. Later he became an active member of the New York Stock 
Exchange, holding his seat for over twenty years. During these years 
of business his pen has been far from idle. He is the author of several 
volumes of poems, and has delivered lectures on poetry, afterward pub- 
lished in book form, at various academic centers. He has also edited 
(with E. M. Hutchinson) A Library of American Literature; The 
Works of Edgar Allaji Poe (with G. E. Woodberry) ; A Victorian 
Anthology; and An American Anthology. 

KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES 

So that soldierly legend is still on its journey, — 

That story of Kearny who knew not to yield ! 
'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and Birney, 

Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. 
Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, 5 

Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine. 
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest, — 

No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line. 

When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, 

Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground, 10 
He rode down the length of the withering column, 

And his heart at our war cry leapt up with a bound ; 
He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder, — 

His sword waved us on and we answered the sign : 
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder, 15 

" There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line 1 " 
long's am. poems — 16 



242 MIDDLE PERIOD 

How he strode his brown steed ! How we saw his blade 
brighten 

In the one hand still left, — and the reins in his teeth ! 
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, 

But a soldier's glance shot from his visor beneath. 
Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, 5 

Asking where to go in, — through the clearing or pine ? 
'' O, anywhere ! Forward ! ' Tis all the same. Colonel : 

You'll find lovely fighting along the whole line ! " 

O, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, 

That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried ! lo 

Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily. 

The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride ! 
Yet we dream that he still, — in that shadowy region 

Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's sign, — 
Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion, 15 

And the word still is Forward ! along the whole line. 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 

1836- 

Mr. Aldrich is regarded as one of the most accomplished men of 
letters of his day. He was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. At 
the age of seventeen he went to New York and gained the friendship 
of N. P. Willis, and wrote for various New York journals. Later he 
went to Boston, where for several years he edited the Atlaiitic Monthly. 
He is the author of several volumes of verse and of many well-known 
stories. His wit and brilliancy give him a place of distinction among 
his contemporaries. 

UNGUARDED GATES 

Wide open and unguarded stand our gates, 
Named of the four winds. North, South, East, and West ; 
Portals that lead to an enchanted land 
Of cities, forests, fields of living gold, 20 



ALDRICH 243 

Vast prairies, lordly summits touched with snow, 

Majestic rivers sweeping proudly past 

The Arab's date palm and the Norseman's pine — 

A realm wherein are fruits of every zone, 

Airs of all climes, for, lo ! throughout the year 5 

The red rose blossoms somewhere — a rich land, 

A later Eden planted in the wilds, 

With not an inch of earth within its bound 

But if a slave's foot press it sets him free. 

Here, it is written, Toil shall have its wage, 10 

And Honor honor, and the humblest man 

Stand level with the highest in the law. 

Of such a land have men in dungeons dreamed, 

And with the vision brightening in their eyes 

Gone smiling to the fagot and the sword. 15 

Wide open and unguarded stand our gates, 
And through them presses a wild, motley throng — 
Men from the Volga and the Tartar steppes, 
Featureless figures of the Hoang-Ho, 

Malayan, Scythian, Teuton, Kelt, and Slav, 20 

Flying the Old World's poverty and scorn ; 
These bringing with them unknown gods and rites, — 
Those, tiger passions, here to stretch their claws. 
In street and alley what strange tongues are loud, 
Accents of menace alien to our air, 25 

Voices that once the Tower of Babel knew ! 

O Liberty, white Goddess ! is it well 
To leave the gates unguarded ? On thy breast 
Fold Sorrow's children, soothe the hurts of fate. 
Lift the downtrodden, but with hand of steel 30 

Stay those who to thy sacred portals come 
To waste the gifts of freedom. Have a care 
Lest from thy brow the clustered stars be torn 



244 MIDDLE PERIOD 

And trampled in the dust. For so of old 
The thronging Goth and Vandal trampled Rome, 
And where the temples of the Caesars stood 
The lean wolf unmolested made her lair. 

PALABRAS CARINOSAS 

Good night ! I have to say good night 
To such a host of peerless things ! 
Good night unto the slender hand 
All queenly with its weight of rings ; 
Good night to fond, uplifted eyes, 
Good night to chestnut braids of hair, 
Good night unto the perfect mouth, 
And all the sweetness nestled there — 
The snowy hand detains me, then 
I'll have to say good night again ! 

But there will come a time, my love, 
When, if I read our stars aright, 
I shall not linger by this porch 
With my farewells. Till then, good night ! 
You wish the time were now ? And I. 
You do not blush to wish it so ? 
You would have blushed yourself to death 
To own so much a year ago — 
What, both these snowy hands ! ah, then 
I'll have to say good night again ! 

BATUSCHKA 

From yonder gilded minaret 
Beside the steel-blue Neva set, 
I faintly catch, from time to time. 
The sweet, aerial midnight chime — » 
"God save the Tsar! " .. 



HAY 245 

Above the ravelins and the moats 
Of the white citadel it floats ; 
And men in dungeons far beneath 
Listen, and pray, and gnash their teeth — 

" God save the Tsar ! " 5 

The soft reiterations sweep 
Across the horror of their sleep, 
As if some demon in his glee 
Were mocking at their misery — 

"God save the Tsar ! " 10 

In his Red Palace over there, 
Wakeful, he needs must hear the prayer. 
How can it drown the broken cries 
Wrung from his children's agonies? — 

" God save the Tsar ! " 15 

Father they called him from of old — 
Batuschka ! . . . How his heart is cold ! 
Wait till a million scourged men 
Rise in their awful might, and then — 

" God save the Tsar ! " 20 



JOHN HAY 

1838-1905 

John Hay, versatile man of letters and brilliant statesman, was born 
at Salem, Indiana, was graduated from Brown University, and later 
admitted to the bar. He was one of President Lincoln's private secre- 
taries during the war, and also saw active service, with the rank of 
colonel. After the war he held minor diplomatic posts at Paris, 
Vienna, and Madrid. In 1897 President McKinley appointed him 
ambassador to Great Britain, where he served with great distinction, 
both to himself and to his country. During the Spanish-American 



246 MIDDLE PERIOD 

War he was recalled and appointed Secretary of State. He was re- 
tained in this position when Mr. Roosevelt succeeded to the presidency, 
and he held it until his death. He wrote a volume of Spanish sketches, 
two volumes of poems, and, with J. G. Nicolay, the voluminous and 
authoritative life of Abraham Lincoln. His sudden death was re- 
garded as a national calamity. 

JIM BLUDSO OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE 

Wall, no ! I can't tell whar he lives, 

Becase he don't live, you see ; 
Leastways, he's got out of the habit 

Of livin' like you and me. 
Wha-r have you been for the last three year 5 

That you haven't heard folks tell 
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks 

The night of the Prairie Belle ? 

He weren't no saint, — them engineers 

Is all pretty much alike, — , 10 

One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill 

And another one here, in Pike ; 
A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 

And an awkward hand in a row. 
But he never flunked, and he never lied, — 15 

I reckon he never knowed how. 

And this was all the religion he had, — 

To treat his engine well ; 
Never be passed on the river ; 

To mind the pilot's bell ; 20 

And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, — 

A thousand times he swore 
He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank 

Till the last soul got ashore. 



HAY 247 

All boats has their day on the Mississip, 

And her day come at last, — 
The Movastar was a better boat, 

But the Belle she wouldn^the passed. 
And so she come tearin' along that night — 5 

The oldest craft on the line — 
With a nigger squat on her safety valve, 

And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. 

The fire bust out as she clared the bar. 

And burnt a hole in the night, 10 

And quick as a flash she turned, and made 

For that wilier bank on the right. 
There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, 

Over all the infernal roar, 
" I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank 15 

Till the last galoot's ashore." 

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat 

Jim Bludso's voice was heard. 
And they all had trust in his cussedness, 

And knowed he would keep his word. 20 

And, sure's you're born, they all got off 

Afore the smokestacks fell, — 
And Bludso's ghost went up alone 

In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 

He weren't no saint, — but at jedgment 25 

I'd run my chance with Jim, 
'Longside of some pious gentlemen 

That wouldn't shook hands with him. 
He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing, — 

And went for it thar and then ; 30 

And Christ ain't agoing to be too hard 

On a man that died for men. 



248 MIDDLE PERIOD 

JAMES RYDER RANDALL 

1839- 

Mr. Randall has been a lifelong journalist. He was born in 
Baltimore, Maryland, and studied at Georgetown College, D.C. His 
journalistic work has been done at New Orleans, Augusta, Baltimore, 
and Washington. 

MY MARYLAND 

The despot's heel is on thy shore, 

Maryland ! 
His torch is at thy temple door, 

Maryland ! 
Avenge the patriotic gore 5 

That flecked the streets of Baltimore, 
And be the battle queen of yore, 

Maryland, my Maryland 1 

Hark to an exiled son's appeal, 

Maryland ! 10 

My Mother State, to thee I kneel, 

Maryland ! 
For life and death, for woe and weal. 
Thy peerless chivalry reveal. 
And gird thy beauteous limbs with steel, 15 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not cower in the dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy beaming sword shall never rust, 

Maryland ! 20 

Remember Carroll's sacred trust, 
Remember Howard's warlike thrust. 
And all thy slumberers with the just, 

Maryland, my Maryland I 



RANDALL 249 

Come ! 'tis the red dawn of the day, 

Maryland ! 
Come with thy panoplied array, 

Maryland ! 
With Ringgold's spirit for the fray, 5 

With Watson's blood at Monterey, 
With fearless Lowe and dashing May, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Dear Mother, burst the tyrant's chain, 

Maryland ! 10 

Virginia should not call in vain, 

Maryland ! 
She meets her sisters on the plain, — 
" Sic semper I " 'tis the proud refrain 
That baffles minions back amain, 15 

Maryland ! 
Arise in majesty again, 

Maryland, my Maryland I 

Come ! for thy shield is bright and strong, 

Maryland ! 20 

Come ! for thy dalliance does thee wrong, 
Maryland ! 

Come to thine own heroic throng. 

Stalking with Liberty along, 

And chant thy dauntless slogan-song, 25 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

I see the blush upon thy cheek, 

Maryland ! ^ 

For thou wast ever bravely meek, 

Maryland ! 30 

But lo ! there surges forth a shriek, 



250 MIDDLE PERIOD 

From hill to hill, from creek to creek, 
Potomac calls to Chesapeake, 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 

Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll, 

Maryland ! - 5 

Thou wilt not crook to his control, 

Maryland ! 
Better the fire upon thee roll. 
Better the shot, the blade, the bowl, 
Than crucifixion of the soul, 10 

Maryland, my Maryland 1 

I hear the distant thunder hum, 

Maryland ! 
The Old Line's bugle, fife, and drum, 

Maryland ! 15 

She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb ; 
Huzza ! she spurns the Northern scum ! 
She breathes ! She burns ! She'll come ! She'll come ! 

Maryland, my Maryland ! 



ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN 

1839-1886 

Father Ryan, as he is familiarly called, was born in Norfolk, Vir- 
ginia, and died in Louisville, Kentucky. He was a Catholic priest, 
and served as a chaplain in the Confederate army. Of an unusually 
restless disposition, he edited in turn several religious periodicals and 
moved from one pastoral charge to another. Much of his verse, written 
during the heat of war, is no longer remembered ; but one or two of his 
lyrics retain their popularity. 



RYAN 251 

THE CONQUERED BANNERS 

Furl that Banner, for 'tis weary ; 
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary : 

Furl it, fold it, — it is best ; 
For there's not a man to wave it, 
And there's not a sword to save it, 5 

And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it. 
And its foes now scorn and brave it : 

Furl it, hide it, — let it rest ! 

Take that Banner down ! 'tis tattered ; 10 

Broken is its staff and shattered ; 
And the valiant hosts are scattered, 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh, 'tis hard for us to fold it. 
Hard to think there's none to hold it, 15 

Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh ! 

Furl that Banner — furl it sadly ! 

Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 

And ten thousands wildly, madly, 20 

Swore it should forever wave ; 
Swore that foeman's sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
Till that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their grave ! 25 

Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it. 

And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 

Cold and dead are lying low ; 

1 Selected from Father Ryan's Poems. Copyright, P. J. Kenedy & Sons, N. Y. 



252 MIDDLE PERIOD 

And that Banner — it is trailing, 
While around it sounds the wailing 
Of its people in their woe. 

For, though conquered, they adore it, — 

Love the cold, dead hands that bore it, 5 

Weep for those who fell before it. 
Pardon those who trailed and tore it ; 
And oh, wildly they deplore it, 

Now to furl and fold it so ! 

Furl that Banner ! True, 'tis gory, 10 

Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory. 
And 'twill live in song and story 

Though its folds are in the dust ! 
For its fame on brightest pages, 
Penned by poets and by sages, 15 

Shall go sounding down the ages — 

Furl its folds though now we must. 

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ! 
Treat it gently — it is holy, 

For it droops above the dead. 20 

Touch it not — unfold it never ; 
Let it droop there, furled forever, — 

For its people's hopes are fled ! 

ANONYMOUS 

These verses first appeared in the Metropolitan Record. 

THE CONFEDERATE FLAG 

No more o'er huntan hearts to wave, 

Its tattered folds forever furled : 25 

We laid it in an honored grave, 
And left its memories to the world. 



ANONYMOUS 253 

The agony of long, long years, 

May, in a moment, be compressed, 
And with a grief too deep for tears, 

A heart may be oppressed. 

Oh ! there are those who die too late 5 

For faith in God, and Right, and Truth, — • 

The cold mechanic grasp of Fate 

Hath crushed the roses of their youth. 

More blessed are the dead who fell 

Beneath it in unfaltering trust, 10 

Than we, who loved it passing well, 

Yet lived to see it trail in dust. 

It hath no future which endears, 

And this farewell shall be our last : 
Embalm it in a nation's tears, 15 

And consecrate it to the past ! 

To mouldering hands that to it clung, 

And flaunted it in hostile faces. 
To pulseless arms that round it flung, 

The terror of their last embraces — 20 

To our dead heroes — to the hearts 

That thrill no more to love or glory, 
To those who acted well their parts. 

Who died in youth and live in glory — 

With tears forever be it told, 25 

Until oblivion covers all : 
Until the heavens themselves wear old, 

And totter slowly to their fall. 



254 MIDDLE PERIOD 

BRET HARTE 

1839-1902 

The lives of few American writers have been so varied or so pictur- 
esque as that of Bret Harte. He was born at Albany, New York, but 
early in life, having lost his father, he went to California, where he 
successively taught school, worked in a mine and in a printing office, 
and edited a newspaper. His fame as a writer spread to the East when 
he published his story. The Luck of Roaring Camp, in the Overland 
Monthly, the first successful literary magazine published on the Pacific 
slope. He removed to New York in 1871, where he published many 
stories and poems in the periodicals of the day. He also held consul- 
ships at Crefeld, Germany, and at Glasgow, Scotland. The last years 
of his life were spent in England, where he died and was buried. His 
stories and poems deal chiefly with life in California. They are as 
popular in England as in America. 

JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG 

Have you heard the story that gossips tell 

Of Burns of Gettysburg ? — No ? Ah, well : 

Brief is the glory that hero earns, 

Briefer the story of poor John Burns. 

He was the fellow who won renown, — 5 

The only man who didn't back down 

When the rebels rode through his native town ;' 

But held his own in the fight next day, 

When all his townsfolk ran away. 

That was in July sixty-three, 10 

The very day that General Lee, 

Flower of Southern chivalry. 

Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 

From a stubborn Meade q,nd a barren field. 

I might tell how but the day before 15 

John Burns stood at his cottage door, 



HARTE 255 

Looking down the village street, 

Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 

He heard the low of his gathered kine, 

And felt their breath with incense sweet ; 

Or I might say, when the sunset burned 5 

The old farm gable, he thought it turned 

The milk that fell like a babbling flood 

Into the milk pail red as blood ! 

Or how he fancied the hum of bees 

Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 10 

But all such fanciful thoughts as these 

Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 

Who minded only his own concerns, 

Troubled no more by fancies fine 

Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine, — 15 

Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact. 

Slow to argue, but quick to act. 

That was the reason, as some folk say, 

He fought so well on that terrible day. 

And it was terrible. On the right 20 

Raged for hours the heady fight. 

Thundered the battery's double bass, — 

Difficult music for men to face ; 

While on the left — where now the graves 

Undulate like the living waves 25 

That all that day unceasing swept 

Up to the pits the rebels kept — 

Round shot plowed the upland glades, 

Sown with bullets, reaped with blades ; 

Shattered fences here and there 30 

Tossed their splinters in the air ; 

The very trees were stripped and bare ; 

The barns that once held yellow grain 

Were heaped with harvests of the slain ; 



256 MIDDLE PERIOD 

The cattle bellowed on the plain, 
The turkeys screamed with might and main, 
And brooding barnfowl left their rest 
With strange shells bursting in each nest. 

Just where the tide of the battle turns, 5 

Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. 

How do you think the man was dressed ? 

He wore an ancient long buff vest. 

Yellow as saffron, — but his best ; 

And buttoned over his manly breast 10 

Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, 

And large gilt buttons, — size of a dollar, — 

With tails that the country-folk called " swaller." 

He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat. 

White as the locks on which it sat. 15 

Never had such a sight been seen 

For forty years on the village green, 

Since old John Burns was a country beau, 

And went to the " quiltings " long ago. 

Close at his elbows all that day, 20 

Veterans of the Peninsula, 

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away ; 

And striplings, downy of lip and chin, — 

Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in, — 

Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, 25 

Then at the rifle his right hand bore, 

And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, 

With scraps of a slangy i-epertoire : 

" How are you. White Hat ? " " Put her through ! " 

" Your head's level ! " and " Bully for you ! " 30 

Called him " Daddy," begged he'd disclose 

The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 

And what was the value he set on those ; 



HARTE 257 

While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, 
Stood there picking the rebels off, — 
With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat 
And the swallowtails they were laughing at. 

'Twas but for a moment, for that respect 5 

Which clothes all courage their voices checked ; 

And something the wildest could understand 

Spake in the old man's strong right hand, 

And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 

Of his eyebrows under his old bell-crown ; 10 

Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 

Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw. 

In the antique vestments and long white hair. 

The Past of the Nation in battle there ; 

And some of the soldiers since declare 15 

That the gleam of his old white hat afar, 

Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 

That day was their oriflamme of war. 

So raged the battle. You know the rest : 

How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, 20 

Broke at the final charge and ran, 

At which John Burns — a practical man — 

Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows. 

And then went back to his bees and cows. 

That is the story of old John Burns ; 25 

This is the moral the reader learns : 
In fighting the battle, the question's whether 
You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather ! 



long's am. poems — 17 



258 MIDDLE PERIOD 

CHIQUITA 

Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so. Thar isn't her match in the 

county ; 
Is thar, old gal, — Chiquita, my darling, my beauty ? 
Feel of that neck, sir, — thar's velvet! Whoa! steady, — ah, 

will you, you vixen ! 
Whoa ! I say. Jack, trot her out ; let the gentleman look at her 

paces. 

Morgan! — she ain't nothing else, and I've got the papers to 

prove it. 5 

Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't buy 

her. 
Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of 

Tuolumne ? 
Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down in 

'Frisco ! 

Hedn't no savey, hed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! that'll do, — quit that 

foolin' ! 
Nothin' to what she kin do, when she's got her work cut out 

before her. 10 

Hosses is bosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is 

jockeys : 
And 'tain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows what a boss has got 

in him. 

Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan's 

leaders ? 
Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low 

water ! 
Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his nevey 
Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water all 

round us ; 16 



HARTE 259 

Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek jest a-bilin' 

Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river. 

I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, 

Chiquita ; 
And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of the 

canon. 

Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita 5 

Buckled right down to her work, and, afore I could yell to her 

rider. 
Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and me 

standing, 
And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and a-driftin' to 

thunder ! 

Would ye b'lieve it? That night, that hoss, that 'ar filly, 

Chiquita, 
Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and 

dripping : 10 

Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, 
Jest as she swam the Fork, — that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita. 

That's what I call a hoss ! and — What did you say ? — Oh, the 

nevey ? 
Drownded, I reckon, — leastways, he never kem back to deny it. 
Ye see the derned fool had no seat, ye couldn't have made him 

a rider ; 15 

And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and bosses — well, bosses 

is bosses ! 

THE AGED STRANGER 

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR 

" I WAS with Grant " — the stranger said ; 

Said the farmer, " Say no more. 
But rest thee here at my cottage porch, 

For thy feet are weary and sore." 20 



260 MIDDLE PERIOD 

" I was with Grant " — the stranger said ; 

Said the farmer, "Nay, no more, — 
I prithee sit at my frugal board, 

And eat of my humble store. 

" How fares my boy, — my soldier boy, 5 

Of the old Ninth Army Corps ? 
I warrant he bore him gallantly 

In the smoke and the battle's roar ! " 

" I know him not," said the aged man, 

" And, as I remarked before, 10 

I was with Grant " — " Nay, nay, I know," 
Said the farmer, " say no more : 

" He fell in battle, — I see, alas ! 

Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er, — 
Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, 15 

Though it rend my bosom's core. 

" How fell he, — with his face to the foe, 

Upholding the flag he bore ? 
Oh, say not that my boy disgraced 

The uniform that he wore ! " • 20 

" I cannot tell," said the aged man, 
" And should have remarked before. 

That I was with Grant, — in Illinois, — 
Some three years before the war." 

Then the farmer spake him never a word, 25 

But beat with his fist full sore 
That aged man, who had worked for Grant 

Some three years before the war. 



SILL 261 

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 

1841-1887 

A GRADUATE of Yale, a professor of English literature at the Univer- 
sity of California, a man of unusual poetic gifts, Sill died when he 
seemed on the threshold of a more than ordinary literary career. He 
left behind a volume of essays and several volumes of verse. The Venus 
of Milo is his longest and best-known poem. He was born at Windsor, 
Connecticut, and died at Cleveland, Ohio. 

THE FOOL'S PRAYER 

The royal feast was done ; the King- 
Sought some new sport to banish care. 

And to his jester cried : " Sir Fool, 

Kneel now, and make for us a prayer ! " 

The jester doffed his cap and bells, 5 

And stood the mocking court before ; 

They could not see the bitter smile 
Behind the painted grin he wore. 

He bowed his head, and bent his knee 

Upon the monarch's silken stool ; 10 

His pleading voice arose : " O Lord, 
Be merciful to me, a fool ! 

" No pity. Lord, could change the heart 
From red Avith wrong to white as wool : 

The rod must heal the sin ; but. Lord, 15 

Be merciful to me, a fool ! 

" 'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep 
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay ; 

'Tis by our follies that so long 

We hold the earth from heaven away. 20 



262 MIDDLE PERIOD 

" These clumsy feet, still in the mire, 

Go crushing blossoms without end ; 
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust 

Among the heartstrings of a friend. 

" The ill-timed truth we might have kept — • 5 

Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung ! 

The word we had not sense to say — 
Who knows how grandly it had rung ! 

" Our faults no tenderness should ask, 

The chastening stripes must cleanse them all ; 10 
But for our blunders — Oh, in shame 

Before the eyes of heaven we fall. 

" Earth bears no balsam for mistakes ; 

Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool 
That did his will ; but Thou, O Lord, 15 

Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 

The room was hushed ; in silence rose 
The King, and sought his gardens cool. 

And walked apart, and murmured low, 

" Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 20 

THE FUTURE 

What may we take into the vast Forever ? 
That marble door 

Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor, 
No fame-wreathed crown we wore. 
No garnered lore. 25 

What can we bear beyond the unknown portal ? 

No gold, no gains 
Of all our toiling : in the life immortal 

No hoarded wealth remains, 

Nor gilds, nor stains. 30 



SILL 263 

Naked from out that far abyss behind us 

We entered here : 
No word came with our coming to remind us 

What wondrous world was near, 

No hope, no fear. 5 

Into the silent, starless Night before us, 

Naked we glide ; 
No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us, 

No comrade at our side, 

No chart, no guide. 10 

Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow, 

Our footsteps fare : 
The beckoning of a Father's hand we follow — 

His love alone is there. 

No curse, no care. 15 

EVE'S DAUGHTER 

I WAITED in the little sunny room : 

The cool breeze waved the window-lace at play, 
The white rose on the porch was all in bloom. 

And out upon the bay 
I watched the wheeling sea birds go and come. 20 

" Such an old friend, — she would not make me stay 

While she bound up her hair." I turned, and lo, 
Danae in her shower ! and fit to slay 

All a man's hoarded prudence at a blow : 
Gold hair, that streamed away 25 

As round some nymph a sunlit fountain's flow. 

" She would not make me wait " — but well I know 
She took a good half hour to loose and lay 

Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so ! 



264 MIDDLE PERIOD 

WILLIAM GORDON McCABE 

1841- 

Captain McCabe, head master of the University School at Rich- 
mond, Virginia, was born near Richmond, and was graduated from the 
University of Virginia. He was a captain of artillery in the Confederate 
army. During the war he wrote several popular lyrics. He is also the 
author of The Defence of Petersburg, Campaign of 1864-186J. His 
sprightly wit, scholarship, and good comradeship make him welcome 
in all social and literary circles. 

CHRISTMAS NIGHT OF '62 

The wintry blast goes wailing by, 

The snow is falling overhead ; 

I hear the lonely sentry's tread, 
And distant watch fires light the sky. 

Dim forms go flitting through the gloom ; 5 

The soldiers cluster round the blaze 

To talk of other Christmas days, 
And softly speak of home and home. 

My saber swinging overhead 

Gleams in the watch fire's fitful glow, 10 

While fiercely drives the blinding snow. 

And memory leads me to the dead. 

My thoughts go wandering to and fro, 
Vibrating 'twixt the Now and Then ; 
I see the low-browed home again, 15 

The old hall wreathed with mistletoe. 

And sweetly from the far-of^ years 

Comes borne the laughter faint and low. 
The voices of the Long Ago ! 

My eyes are wet with tender tears. 20 



MILLER 265 

I feel again the mother-kiss, 

I see again the glad surprise 

That lightened up the tranquil eyes, 
And brimmed them o'er with tears of bliss, 

As, rushing from the old hall door, 5 

She fondly clasped her wayward boy — 
Her face all radiant with the joy 

She felt to see him home once more. 

My saber swinging on the bough 

Gleams in the watch fire's fitful glow, 10 

While fiercely drives the blinding snow, 

Aslant upon my saddened brow. 

Those cherished faces all are gone ! 

Asleep within the quiet graves 

Where lies the snow in drifting waves, — 15 

And I am sitting here alone. 

There's not a comrade here to-night 

But knows that loved ones far away 

On bended knees this night will pray : 
"God bring our darling from the fight." 20 

But there are none to wish me back, 

For me no yearning prayers arise. 

The lips are mute and closed the eyes — 
My home is in the bivouac. 

In the Army of Northern Virginia. 

JOAQUIN MILLER 



CiClNNATUS HiNER MiLLER, better known by his pen name, Joaquin 
Miller, was born in Indiana, but most of his life has been spent on the 
Pacific slope. He has been a miner, a lawyer, a judge, and an editor. 



266 MIDDLE PERIOD 

He has traveled in Europe, and in very recent years he made a visit 
to the Klondike. Several volumes of verse and two or three novels 
have come from his pen. He lives in a picturesque house on the 
heights overlooking San Francisco Bay. 

COLUMBUS 

Behind him lay the gray Azores, 

Behind the Gates of Hercules ; 
Before him not the ghost of shores, 

Before him only shoreless seas. 
The good mate said : " Now must we pray, 5 

For lo ! the very stars are gone. 
Brave Adm'r'l, speak, what shall I say ? " 

" Why, say : ' Sail on ! sail on ! and on ! ' " 

" My men grow mutinous day by day ; 

My men grow ghastly wan and weak." 10 

The stout mate thought of home ; a spray 

Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. 
" What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say. 

If we sight naught but seas at dawn ? " 
" Why, you shall say at break of day : 15 

* Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on ! ' " 

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, 

Until at last the blanched mate said : 
" Why, now not even God would know 

Should I and all my men fall dead. 20 

These very winds forget their way. 

For God from these dread seas is gone. 
Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say " — 

He said : " Sail on ! sail dn ! and on ! " 

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate : 25 
" This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. 



MILLER 267 

He curls his lip, he Ues in wait, 

With Hfted teeth, as if to bite ! 
Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word : 

What shall we do when hope is gone ? " 
The words leapt like a leaping sword : 5 

" Sail on ! sail on ! sail on ! and on ! " 

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, 

And peered through darkness. Ah, that night 
Of all dark nights ! And then a speck — 

A light ! A light ! A light ! A light ! 10 

It grew, a starlit flag unfurled ! 

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. 
He gained a world ; he gave that world 

Its grandest lesson : " On ! sail on ! " 

WESTWARD HO! 

What strength ! what strife ! what rude unrest ! 15 

What shocks ! what half-shaped armies met 1 

A mighty nation moving west, 

With all its steely sinews set 

Against the living forests. Hear 

The shouts, the shots of pioneer, 20 

The rended forests, rolling wheels, 

As if some half-check'd army reels, 

Recoils, redoubles, comes again. 

Loud sounding like a hurricane. 

O bearded, stalwart, westmost men, 25 

So tower-like, so Gothic built ! 

A kingdom won without the guilt 

Of studied battle, that hath been 

Your blood's inheritance. . . . Your heirs 

Know not your tombs : the great plowshares 30 



268 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Cleave softly through the mellow loam 

Where you have made eternal home, 

And set no sign. Your epitaphs 

Are writ in furrows. Beauty laughs 

While through the green ways wandering 5 

Beside her love, slow gathering 

White, starry-hearted May-time blooms 

Above your lowly leveled tombs ; 

And then below the spotted sky 

She stops, she leans, she wonders why 10 

The ground is heaved and broken so, 

And why the grasses darker grow 

And droop and trail like wounded wing. 

Yea, Time, the grand old harvester, 

Has gather'd you from wood and plain. 15 

We call to you again, again ; 

The rush and rumble of the car 

Comes back in answer. Deep and wide 

The wheels of progress have passed on ; 

The silent pioneer is gone. 20 

His ghost is moving down the trees. 

And now we push the memories 

Of bluff, bold men who dared and died 

In foremost battle, quite aside. 

SIDNEY LANIER 

1842-1881 

Most critics regard Lanier as the chief of the poets who have come 
from the South since the death of Poe. He was born at Macon, 
Georgia, and was graduated from Oglethorpe College. ■ He was among 
the first to enlist in the Confederate army, and near the close of the war 
he served on a blockade runner. For a time after the war he taught 
school, and later practiced law ; but his absorbing interest was in music 



LANIER 269 

and poetry. He removed to Baltimore, where most of his later years 
were spent, and supported himself for a time by playing the flute in 
the Peabody symphony concerts. His poems appeared from time to 
time in the magazines, and he was appointed to a lectureship in Johns 
Hopkins University. These lectures appeared later in book form, The 
Science of English Verse and The English Novel. His hterary activity 
was cut short by ill health, which drove him to western North Caro- 
lina, where he died. Lanier's best-known longer poems are Corn and 
The Marshes of Glynn. They show imaginative gifts of a high order, 
but it is doubtful if they will ever make a wide popular appeal. Lanier's 
engaging personality and high literary ideals drew to him many fine 
spirits, who still mourn his early death. 

SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHE^ 

Out of the hills of Habersham, 

Down the valleys of Hall, 
I hurry amain to reach the plain. 
Run the rapid and leap the fall, 
Split at the rock and together again, 5 

Accept my bed, or narrow or wide. 
And flee from folly on every side 
With a lover's pain to attain the plain 

Far from the hills of Habersham, 

Far from the valleys of Hall. 10 

All down the hills of Habersham, 

All through the valleys of Hall, 
The rushes cried. Abide, abide, 
The willful water weeds held me thrall. 
The laving laurel turned my tide, 15 

The ferns and the fondling grass said, Stay, 
The dewberry dipped for to work delay, 
And the little reeds sighed, Abide, abide, 

1 From Poems 0/ Sidney Lanier. Copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier. 
Published by Charles Scribner's Sons, 



2/0 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Here in the hills of Habersham, 
Here in the valleys of Hall. 

High o'er the hills of Habersham, 

Veiling the valleys of Hall, 
The hickory told me manifold 5 

Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall 
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold. 
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, 
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, 
Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold 10 

Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, 

These glades in the valleys of Hall. 

And oft in the hills of Habersham, 

And oft in the valleys of Hall, 
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone 15 
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, 
And many a luminous jewel lone 
— Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist. 
Ruby, garnet, and amethyst — 
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone 20 

In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, 

In the beds of the valleys of Hall. 

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, 

And oh, not the valleys of Hall 
Avail : I am fain for to water the plain. 25 

Downward the voices of Duty call — 
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main. 
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, 
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, 
And the lordly main from beyond the plain 30 

Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, 

Calls through the valleys of Hall. 



LANIER 271 

TAMPA ROBINS^ 

The robin laughed in the orange tree : 
" Ho, windy North, a fig for thee : 
While breasts are red and wings are bold 
And green trees wave us globes of gold. 

Time's scythe shall reap but bliss for me 5 

— Sunlight, song, and the orange tree. 

Burn, golden globes in leafy sky, 

My orange planets : crimson I 

Will shine and shoot among the spheres 

(Blithe meteor that no mortal fears) 10 

And thrid the heavenly orange tree 

With orbits bright of minstrelsy. 

If that I hate wild winter's spite — 

The gibbet trees, the world in white, 

The sky but gray wind over a grave — 15 

Why should I ache, the season's slave ? 

I'll sing from the top of the orange tree, 

Grajnercy , winter's tyranny. 

I'll south with the sun, and keep my clime ; 

My wing is king of the summer time ; 20 

My breast to the sun his torch shall hold ; 

And I'll call down through the green and gold. 

Time, take thy scythe, reap bliss for me, 

Bestir thee under the orange tree." 

Tampa, Florida, iSyj. 

1 From Poems of Sidney Lanier. Copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier. 
Publislied by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



2/2 MIDDLE PERIOD. 

ETHEL LYNN BEERS 

1827-1879 

The author of this popular poem was born at Goshen, New York, 
and died at Orange, New Jersey. She was a descendant of John Eliot, 
the apostle to the Indians. She left a volume of poems, of which 
only one is now remembered. 

ALL QUIET ALONG THE POTOMAC 

" All quiet along the Potomac," they say, 

" Except now and then a stray picket 
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, 

By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 
'Tis nothing — a private or two now and then 5 

Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
Not an officer lost — only one of the men. 

Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle." 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; lo 

Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon. 

Or the light of the watch fire, are gleaming. 
A tremulous sigh of the gentle night wind 

Through the forest leaves softly is creeping ; 
While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 15 

Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. 

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread. 

As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, 
And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed 

Far away in the cot on the mountain. 20 

His musket falls slack ; his fape, dark and grim, 

Grows gentle with memories tender. 
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, 

For their mother ; may Heaven defend her ! 



MEREDITH 2/3 

The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 

That night, when the love yet unspoken 
Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows 

Were pledged to be ever unbroken. 
Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, 5 

He dashes off tears that are welling, 
And gathers his gun closer up to its place, 

As if to keep down the heart-swelling. 

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree. 

The footstep is lagging and weary ; 10 

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light. 

Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. 
Hark ! was it the night wind that rustled the leaves ? 

Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? 
It looked like a rifle ..." Ha! Mary, good-by! " 15 

The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 

All quiet along the Potomac to-night ; 

No sound save the rush of the river ; 
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — 

The picket's off duty forever ! 20 

WILLIAM TUCKEY MEREDITH 

Mr. Meredith was born in Philadelphia. He served as a young 
officer under Farragut in the battle of Mobile Bay, and after the war 
became a banker in New York city. He has published one novel. 

FARRAGUT 

Farragut, Farragut, 

Old Heart of Oak, 
Daring Dave Farragut, 

Thunderbolt stroke, 

long's am. poems — 18 



2/4 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Watches the hoary mist 
Lift from the bay, 

Till his flag, glory-kissed, 
Greets the young day. 

Far, by gray Morgan's walls, 

Looms the black fleet. 
Hark, deck to rampart calls 

With the drum's beat! 
Buoy your chains overboard, 

While the steam hums ; 
Men! to the battlement, 

Farragut comes. 



See, as the hurricane 

Hurtles in wrath 
Squadrons of clouds amain 15 

Back from its path ! 
Back to the parapet, 

To the guns' lips. 
Thunderbolt Farragut 

Hurls the black ships. 20 

Now through the battle's roar 

Clear the boy sings, 
" By the mark fathoms four," 

While his lead swings. 
Steady the wheelmen five 25 

" Nor' by East keep her," 
" Steady," but two alive : 

How the shells sweep her ! 

Lashed to the mast that sways 

Over red decks, 30 

Over the flame that plays 

Round the torn wrecks, 



GILDER 275 

Over the dying lips 

Framed for a cheer, 
Farragut leads his ships, 

Guides the line clear. 

On by heights battle-browed, 5 

While the spars quiver ; 
Onward still flames the cloud 

Where the hulks shiver. 
See, yon fort's star is set, 

Storm and fire past. 10 

Cheer him, lads — Farragut, 

Lashed to the mast ! 

Oh ! while Atlantic's breast 

Bears a white sail, 
While the Gulf's towering crest 15 

Tops a green vale, 
Men thy bold deeds shall tell, 

Old Heart of Oak, 
Daring Dave Farragut, 

Thunderbolt stroke ! 20 

Mobile Bay, 5 August, 1864. 

RICHARD WATSON GILDER 



Mr. Gilder is the well-known editor of the Centtiry Magazine, and 
the judicious friend of social and political reform. He was born at 
Bordentown, New Jersey, saw service in the Civil War, and later 
engaged in journalism in Newark, New Jersey, and in New York city. 
He has been editor in chief of the Century for more than twenty years. 
The Authors' Club was founded at his house, and he has been for 
years a prominent figure in literary and artistic circles in his adopted 
city. He married the granddaughter of Joseph Rodman Drake. 
His verse, in several volumes, gives him high rank among the poets of 
the present day. 



276 MIDDLE PERIOD 

SHERMAN 

Glory and honor and fame and everlasting laudation 

For our captains who loved not war, but fought for the life of 

the nation ; 
Who knew that, in all the land, one slave meant strife, not 

peace ; 
Who fought for freedom, not glory ; made war that war might 

cease. 

Glory and honor and fame ; the beating of muffled drums ; 5 
The wailing funeral dirge, as the flag-wrapped coffin comes. 
Fame and honor and glory ; and joy for a noble soul ; 
For a full and splendid life, and laureled rest at the goal. 

Glory and honor and fame ; the pomp that a soldier prizes ; 
The league-long waving line as the marching falls and rises ; 10 
Rumbling of caissons and guns ; the clatter of horses' feet. 
And a million awe-struck faces far down the waiting street. 

But better than martial woe, and the pageant of civic sorrow ; 
Better than praise of to-day, or the statue we build to-morrow ; 
Better than honor and glory, and history's iron pen, 15 

Was the thought of duty done and the love of his fellow-men. 

GREAT NATURE IS AN ARMY GAY 

Great nature is an army gay. 

Resistless marching on its way ; 

I hear the bugles clear and sweet, 

I hear the tread of million feet. 20 

Across the plain I see it pour ; 
It tramples down the waving grass ; 
Within the echoing mountain pass 
I hear a thousand cannon roar. 



ROWLAND 277 

It swarms within my garden gate ; 
My deepest well it drinketh dry. 
It doth not rest ; it doth not wait ; 
By night and day it sweepeth by ; 

Ceaseless it marches by my door ; 5 

It heeds me not, though I implore. 
I know not whence it comes, nor where 
It goes; for me it doth not care — 
Whether I starve, or eat, or sleep. 

Or live, or die, or sing, or weep. 10 

And now the banners all are bright, 
Now torn and blackened by the fight. 
Sometimes its laughter shakes the sky. 
Sometimes the groans of those who die. 
Still through the night and through the livelong day 15 
The infinite army marches on its remorseless way. 

MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND 

1832-1864 

Mary Woolsey, whose literary reputation rests solely upon the 
poem below, was the wife of the Rev. R. S. Rowland, of New York 
city. 

IN THE HOSPITAL 

I LAY me down to sleep, 
With little thought or care 
Whether my waking find 

Me here or there. 20 

A bowing, burdened head, 
That only asks to rest. 
Unquestioning, upon 
A loving breast. 



2/8 MIDDLE PERIOD 

My good right hand forgets 
Its cunning now. 
To march the weary march 
I know not how. 

I am not eager, bold, 5 

Nor strong — all that is past ; 
I am ready not to do 
At last, at last. 

My half day's work is done. 
And this is all my part ; lo 

I give a patient God 
My patient heart, 

And grasp His banner still. 
Though all its blue be dim ; 
These stripes, no less than stars, 15 

Lead after Him. 

LLOYD MIFFLIN 

1846- 

Mr. Mifflin was born at Columbia, Pennsylvania, where he has 
always resided. He was an artist earlier in life, but gave up painting 
for poetry, and is the author of four volumes of verse. 

SESOSTRIS 

Sole Lord of Lords and very King of Kings, 

He sits within the desert, carved in stone ; 

Inscrutable, colossal, and alone. 

And ancienter than memory of things. 20 

Graved on his front the sacred beetle clings ; 

Disdain sits on his lips ; and in a frown 

Scorn lives upon his forehead for a crown. 

The affrighted ostrich dares not dust her wings 



THOMPSON 279 

Anear this Presence. The long caravan's 
Dazed camels stop, and mute the Bedouins stare. 
This symbol of past power more than man's 
Presages doom. Kings look — and Kings despair : 
Their scepters tremble in their jeweled hands, 5 

And dark thrones totter in the baleful air ! 

MAURICE THOMPSON 

1844-1901 

Geologist, poet, literary critic, and lover of all outdoor things, 
Maurice Thompson was born at Fairfield, Indiana, and died at Craw- 
fordsville. His early life was spent in Georgia, and he was a soldier 
in the Confederate army. After the war he returned to Indiana, where 
he practiced law and later became state geologist. About ten years 
before his death, he joined the literary staff of the New York Inde- 
pendent. Besides poems and stories, he wrote much about -birds, 
archery, fishing, and kindred subjects. Whatever he wrote was healthy 
in tone and independent in spirit. 

A PROPHECY 

FROM "LINCOLN'S GRAVE" 

Old soldiers true, ah, them all men can trust, 
Who fought, with conscience clear, on either side ; 
Who bearded Death and thought their cause was just ; 
Their stainless honor cannot be denied ; 10 

All patriots they beyond the farthest doubt ; 
Ring it and sing it up and down the land. 
And let no voice dare answer it with sneers, 

Or shut its meaning out ; 
Ring it and sing it, we go hand in hand, 15 

Old infantry, old cavalry, old cannoneers. 

And if Virginia's vales shall ring again 

To battle yell of Mosby or Mahone, 

If Wilder's wild brigade or Morgan's men 



280 MIDDLE PERIOD 

♦ 
Once more wheel into line ; or all alone 
A Sheridan shall ride, a Cleburne fall, — 
There will not be two flags above them flying, 
But both in one, welded in that pure flame 

Upflaring in us all, 
When kindred unto kindred, loudly crying, 
Rally and cheer in freedom's holy name ! 

WILL HENRY THOMPSON 



Mr. Thompson was born at Calhoun, Georgia, and in recent years 
has resided at Seattle, Washington. He shared the comradeship of his 
brother, Maurice Thompson, in outdoor sports and in the Confederate 
army, and later they were associated in the practice of law in Indiana. 
Mr. Thompson is noted as an orator, and he has written other verse 
besides the strong ballad given below. 

THE HIGH TIDE AT GETTYSBURG 

A CLOUD possessed the hollow field, 

The gathering battle's smoky shield. 

Athwart the gloom the lightning flashed, lo 

And through the cloud some horsemen dashed, 

And from the heights the thunder pealed. 

Then at the brief command of Lee 

Moved out that matchless infantry, 

With Pickett leading grandly down, 15 

To rush against the roaring crown 

Of those dread heights of destiny. 

Far heard above the angry guns 

A cry across the tumult runs, — 

The voice that rang through Shiloh's woods 20 

And Chickamauga's solitudes. 

The fierce South cheering on her sons ! 



THOMPSON 28 1 

Ah, how the withering tempest blew 

Against the front of Pettigrew ! 

A Khamsin wind that scorched and singed 

Like that infernal flame that fringed 

The British squares at Waterloo ! 5 

A thousand fell where Kemper led ; 

A thousand died where Garnett bled : 

In blinding flame and strangling smoke 

The remnant through the batteries broke 

And crossed the works with Armistead. 10 

" Once more in Glory's van with me ! " 

Virginia cried to Tennessee ; 

" We two together, come what may, 

Shall stand upon these works to-day ! " 

(The reddest day in history.) 15 

Brave Tennessee ! In reckless way 

Virginia heard her comrade say : 

" Close round this rent and riddled rag ! " 

What time she set her battle flag 

Amid the guns of Doubleday. 20 

But who shall break the guards that wait 

Before the awful face of Fate ? 

The tattered standards of the South 

Were shriveled at the cannon's mouth, 

And all her hopes were desolate. 25 

In vain the Tennesseean set 

His breast against the bayonet ! 

In vain Virginia charged and raged, 

A tigress in her wrath uncaged, 

Till all the hill was' red and wet ! 30 



282 MIDDLE PERIOD 

Above the bayonets, mixed and crossed, 

Men saw a gray, gigantic ghost 

Receding through the battle cloud, 

And heard across the tempest loud 

The death cry of a nation lost ! 5 

The brave v/ent down! Without disgrace 

They leaped to Ruin's red embrace. 

They only heard Fame's thunders wake, 

And saw the dazzling sunburst break 

In smiles on Glory's bloody face ! 10 

They fell, who lifted up a hand 

And bade the sun in heaven to stand ! 

They smote and fell, who set the bars 

Against the progress of the stars, 

And stayed the march of Motherland ! 15 

They stood, who saw the future come 

On through the fight's delirium ! 

They smote and stood, who held the hope 

Of nations on that slippery slope 

Amid the cheers of Christendom. 20 

God lives ! He forged the iron will 

That clutched and held that trembling hill. 

God lives and reigns ! He built and lent 

The heights for Freedom's battlement 

Where floats her flag in triumph still ! 25 

Fold up the banners ! Smelt the guns ! 

Love rules. Her gentler purpose runs. 

A mighty mother turns in tears 

The pages of her battle years, 

Lamenting all her fallen sons ! 30 



LATER PERIOD 

HENRY VAN DYKE 

1852- 

One of the most variously gifted literary men of the present day is 
Dr. Henry van Dyke. He was born in Germantown, Pennsylvania, 
and was graduated from Princeton. Afterward he studied theology 
both at the Princeton Theological Seminary and in Berlin. For many 
years he held the pastorate of the Brick Presbyterian Church in New 
York city, and he has been moderator of the Presbyterian General 
Assembly. Since 1899 he has held the Murray professorship of English 
literature at Princeton. 

Dr. van Dyke's intellectual activity extends over many fields. Sev- 
eral volumes on religious subjects have come from his pen, and one of 
his earlier books is an appreciative study of the poetry of Tennyson. 
In very recent years he has devoted much time and attention to story- 
telling and to poetry. His verse always possesses sprightliness and 
delicacy of imagination and shows unusual skill in the handling of met- 
rical forms. His stories are marked by a love of "God's blessed out- 
of-doors," and by a refinement and warmth of feeling — always clothed 
in apt and musical language — which make them highly effective. Dr. 
van Dyke has an enviable reputation as a forceful pulpit orator and as 
an extremely pleasing lecturer on literary subjects. 

TENNYSON ^ 

IN LUCEM TRANSITUS, OCTOBER, 1892 

From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendors of 

the moon. 
To the singing tides of heaven, and the light more clear than noon, 
Passed a soul that grew to music till it was with God in tune. 

1 From The Builders and Other Poefns. Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 

283 



284 LATER PERIOD 

Brother of the greatest poets, true to nature, true to art ; 
Lover of Immortal Love, uplifter of the human heart, — 
Who shall cheer us with high music, who shall sing, if thou 
depart ? 

Silence here — for love is silent, gazing on the lessening sail; 
Silence here — for grief is voiceless when the mighty minstrels 
fail ; 5 

Silence here — but, far beyond us, many voices crying, Hail ! 

AN ANGLER'S WISH ^ 



When tulips bloom in Union Square, 
And timid breaths of vernal air 

Go wandering down the dusty town, 
Like children lost in Vanity Fair ; 10 

When every long, unlovely row 
Of westward houses stands aglow. 

And leads the eyes towards sunset skies 
Beyond the hills where green trees grow, — 

Then weary seems the street parade, 15 

And weary books, and weary trade : 
I'm only wishing to go a-fishing ; 
For this the month of May was made. 

II 

I guess the pussy willows now 

Are creeping out on every bough 20 

Along the brook ; and robins look 
For early worms behind the plow. 

1 From The Builders and Other Poems. Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 



VAN DYKE 285 

The thistle birds have changed their dun 
For yellow coats, to match the sun ; 

And in the same array of flame 
The dandelion show's begun. 

The flocks of young anemones 5 

Are dancing round the budding trees : 

Who can help wishing to go a-fishing 
In days as full of joy as these ? 

Ill 

I think the meadow lark's clear sound 

Leaks upward slowly from the ground, .10 

While on the wing the bluebirds ring 
Their wedding bells to woods around. 

The flirting chewink calls his dear 
Behind the bush ; and very near, 

Where water flows, where green grass grows, 15 

Song sparrows gently sing, " Good cheer." 

And, best of all, through twilight's calm 
The hermit thrush repeats his psalm. 

How much I'm wishing to go a-fishing 
In days so sweet with music's balm ! 20 

IV 

'Tis not a proud desire of mine ; 
I ask for nothing superfine ; 

No heavy weight, no salmon great, 
To break the record — or my line : 

Only an idle little stream, 25 

Whose amber waters softly gleam, 

Where I may wade, through woodland shade. 
And cast the fly, and loaf, and dream : 



286 LATER PERIOD 

Only a trout or two, to dart 

From foaming pools, and try my art : 

No more I'm wishing — old-fashioned fishing, 

And just a day on Nature's heart. 

THE SONG SPARROW 1 

There is a bird I know so well, 5 

It seems as if he must have sung 

Beside my crib when I was young ; 
Before I knew the way to spell 

The name of even the smallest bird, 

His gentle- joyful song I heard. 10 

Now see if you can tell, my dear. 
What bird it is that, every year, 
Sings ^^ Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer.'''' 

He comes in March when winds are strong, 

And snow returns to hide the earth ; 15 

But still he warms his heart with mirth, 

And waits for May. He lingers long 
While flowers fade ; and every day 
Repeats his small, contented lay ; 

As if to say, we need not fear 20 

The season's change, if love is here 

With '•'■Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merry cheer.'''' 

He does not wear a Joseph's coat 

Of many colors, smart and gay ; 

His suit is Quaker brown and gray, 25 

With darker patches at his throat. 

And yet of all the well-dressed throng 

Not one can sing so brave a song. 

^From The Builders and Other Poems. Copyright, 1897, tiy Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 



FIELD 287 

It makes the pride of looks appear 

A vain and foolish thing, to hear 

His " Sweet — sweet — sweet — very merr]i cheer.'''' 

EUGENE FIELD 

1850-1895 

America has produced no more popular writer of verse for children 
than Eugene Field. He was born in St. Louis, Missouri, of New Eng- 
land ancestry, and died at Chicago, in the prime of his powers. His 
education was received at Williams College and at the University of 
Missouri. His vocation was journalism. He did work for newspapers 
at St. Louis, Kansas City, and Denver, and during the last years of 
his life he was connected with the Chicago Daily News. He found 
time to write several volumes of charming stories and verse. His 
untimely death has been sincerely deplored. He was sunny in temper 
and possessed a nimble imagination and a facile pen. 

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD* 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 

Sailed off in a wooden shoe, — 5 

Sailed on a river of crystal light 

Into a sea of dew. 
" Where are you going, and what do you wish ? " 

The old moon asked the three. 
" We have come to fish for the herring-fish lo 

That live in this beautiful sea ; 
Nets of silver and gold have we," 
Said Wynken 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 15 

The old moon laughed and sang a song, 
As they rocked in the wooden shoe ; 

1 From With Trumpet and Drum. Copyright, 1892, by Mary French Field. 
Pubhshed by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



288 LATER PERIOD 

And the wind that sped them all night long 

Ruffled the waves of dew ; 
The little stars were the herring-fish 

That lived in the beautiful sea. 
" Now cast your nets wherever you wish, — 5 

Never afeard are we ! " 
So cried the stars to the fishermen three, 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 10 

All night long their nets they threw 

To the stars in the twinkling foam, — 
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, 

Bringing the fishermen home : 
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed 15 

As if it could not be ; 
And some folks thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed 
Of sailing that beautiful sea ; 
But I shall name you the fishermen three : 

Wynken, 20 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 

And Nod is a little head, 
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 25 

Is a wee one's trundle-bed ; 
So shut your eyes while Mother sings 

Of wonderful sights that be, 
And you shall see the beautiful things 

As you rock on the misty sea 30 

Where the old shoe rocked, the fishermen three, — 
• Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And Nod. 



FIELD 289 

LITTLE BOY BLUE^ 

The little toy dog is covered with dust, 

But sturdy and stanch he stands ; 
And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 

And his musket moulds in his hands. 
Time was when the little toy dog was new, 5 

And the soldier was passing fair ; 
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue 

Kissed them and put them there. 

" Now, don't you go till I come," he said, 

" And don't you make any noise ! " '10 

So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, 

He dreamt of the pretty toys. 
And, as he was dreaming, an angel song 

Awakened our Little Boy Blue — 
Oh ! the years are many, the years are long, 15 

But the little toy friends are true ! 

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, 

Each in the same old place. 
Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 

The smile of a little face ; 20 

And they wonder, as waiting the long years through 

In the dust of that little chair. 
What has become of our Little Boy Blue, 

Since, he kissed them and put them there. 

1 From Wit/z Trumpet and Drutn. Copyright, 1892, by Mary French Field. 
Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



long's am. poems — 19 



290 LATER PERIOD 

EDWIN MARKHAM 

1852- 

Mr. Markham was born at Oregon City, Oregon, where his parents 
had removed from Michigan, and was educated at Christian College, 
Santa Rosa, California. For many years he was actively engaged in 
educational work in California, serving as principal of various schools, 
and in other ways aiding the cause of educational progress. After he 
had won sudden fame by his poem. The Man with the Hoe, he removed 
to Brooklyn, New York, where he is engaged in literary work. He has 
published two volumes of poems. 

THE MAN WITH THE HOE 

WRITTEN AFTER SEEING THE PAINTING BY MILLET 
God made man in His own image, in the image of God made He him. — GENESIS. 

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans 

Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground. 

The emptiness of ages in his face, 

And on his back the burden of the Avorld. 

Who made him dead to rapture and despair, 5 

A thing that grieves not and that never hopes, 

StoUd and stunned, a brother to the ox ? 

Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw ? 

Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow ? 

Whose breath blew out the light within this brain ? 10 

Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave 

To have dominion over sea and land ; 

To trace the stars and search the heavens for power ; 

To feel the passion of Eternity ? 

Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns 15 

And pillared the blue firmament with light ? 

Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf 



MARKHAM 29 I 

There is no shape more terrible than this — 
More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed — 
More filled with signs and portents for the soul — 
More fraught with menace to the universe. 

What gulfs between him and the seraphim ! 5 

Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him 

Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades ? 

What the long reaches of the peaks of song, 

The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose ? 

Through this dread shape the suffering ages look ; 10 

Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop ; 

Through this dread shape humanity betrayed, 

Plundered, profaned, and disinherited, 

Cries protest to the Judges of the World, 

A protest that is also prophecy. 15 

O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, 

Is this the handiwork you give to God, 

This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched ? 

How will you ever straighten up this shape ; 

Touch it again with immortality ; 20 

Give back the upward looking and the light ; 

Rebuild in it the music and the dream ; 

Make right the immemorial infamies. 

Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes ? 

O masters, lords, and rulers in all lands, 25 

How will the Future reckon with this Man ? 

How answer his brute question in that hour 

When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world ? 

How will it be with kingdoms and with kings — 

With those who shaped him to the thing he is — 30 

When this dumb Terror shall reply to God, 

After the silence of the centuries ? 



292 LATER PERIOD 

JOHN VANCE CHENEY 



The poem given below is considered the best of the numerous replies 
to Mr. Markham's The Man with the Hoe. Mr. Cheney was born at 
Groveland, New York, and once practiced law in New York city. 
Since 1887, however, he has been at the head of libraries in San 
Francisco and in Chicago. His verse has appeared frequently in 
various periodicals, and has been collected into several volumes. He 
has also published two volumes of essays. 

THE MAN WITH THE HOE 

A REPLY 

Let us a little permit Nature to take her own way; she better understands her 
own affairs than we, — MONTAIGNE. 

Nature reads not our labels, "great " and " small " ; 
Accepts she one and all 

Who, striving, win and hold the vacant place ; 
All are of royal race. 

Him, there, rough-cast, with rigid arm and limb, 5 

The Mother moulded him. 

Of his rude realm ruler and demigod, 
Lord of the rock and clod. 

With Nature is no " better " and no " worse," 

On this bared head no curse. 10 

Humbled it is and bowed ; so is he crowned 
Whose kingdom is the ground, 

Diverse the burdens on the one stern road 
Where bears each back its load ; 



CHENEY 293 

Varied the toil, but neither high nor low. 
With pen or sword or hoe, 

He that has put out strength, lo, he is strong ; 
Of him with spade or song 

Nature but questions, — " This one, shall he stay ? " 5 
She answers " Yea," or " Nay," 

" Well, ill, he digs, he sings ; " and he bides on, 
Or shudders, and is gone. 

Strength shall he have, the toiler, strength and grace. 
So fitted to his place 10 

As he leaned, there, an oak where sea winds blow, 
Our brother with the hoe. 

No blot, no monster, no unsightly thing, 
The soil's long-lineaged king ; 

His changeless realm, he knows it and commands ; 15 
Erect enough he stands. 

Tall as his toil. Nor does he bow unblest : 
Labor he has, and rest. 

Need was, need is, and need will ever be 

For him and such as he ; 20 

Cast for the gap, with gnarled arm and limb, 
The Mother moulded him, — 

Long wrought, and moulded him with mother's care, 
Before she set him there. 

And aye she gives him, mindful of her own, 25 

Peace of the plant, the stone ; 



294 LATER PERIOD 

Yea, since above his work he may not rise, 
She makes the field his skies. 

I See ! she that bore him, and metes out the lot, 

" He serves her. Vex him not 

To scorn the rock whence he was hewn, the pit 
And what was digged from it ; 

Lest he no more in native virtue stand, 
The earth-sword in his hand, 

But follow sorry phantoms to and fro, 
And let a kingdom go. 



EDITH MATILDA THOMAS 

i8s4- 

Miss Thomas was born in Chatham, Ohio, but since 1888 she has 
made her home in New York city. She has written much for the 
magazines, both in prose and verse, and her writings have been 
gathered into several volumes. Her verse is marked by delicacy of 
thought, sincerity of feeling, and exquisiteness of finish. 

MOTHER ENGLAND 



There was a rover from a western shore, 

England ! whose eyes the sudden tears did drown. 

Beholding the white cliff and sunny down 

Of thy good realm, beyond the. sea's uproar. 

I, for a moment, dreamed that, long before, 15 

I had beheld them thus, when, with the frown 

Of sovereignty, the victor's palm and crown 



THOMAS 295 

Thou from the tilting field of nations bore. 

Thy prowess and thy glory dazzled first ; 

But when in fields I saw the tender flame 

Of primroses, and full-fleeced lambs at play, 

Meseemed I at thy breast, like these, was nursed ; 5 

Then mother — Mother England ! — home I came, 

Like one who hath been all too long away ! 



As nestling at thy feet in peace I lay, 

A thought awoke and restless stirred in me : 

" My land and congeners are beyond the sea, 10 

Theirs is the morning and the evening day. 

Wilt thou give ear while this of them I say : 

' Haughty art thou, and they are bold and free, 

As well befits who have descent from thee. 

And who have trodden brave the forlorn way. 15 

Children of thine, but grown to strong estate ; 

Nor scorn from thee would they be slow to pay. 

Nor check from thee submissly would they bear ; 

Yet Mother England ! yet their hearts are great, 

And if for thee should dawn some darkest day, 20 

At cry of thine, how proudly would they dare ! ' " 

THE MOTHER WHO DIED TOO 

She was so little — little in her grave. 

The wide earth all around so hard and cold — 
She was so little ! therefore did I crave 

My arms might still her tender form enfold. 25 

She was so little, and her cry so weak 

When she among the heavenly children came — 
She was so little — I alone might speak 

For her who knew no word nor her own name, 



296 LATER PERIOD 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

1853- 

Mr. Riley was born at Greenfield, Indiana, where his father was a 
lawyer. For some years he was engaged in journalism, both in Green- 
field and in Indianapolis. Much of his early verse, in the Hoosier dia- 
lect, first appeared in the newspapers. It attracted wide attention, and 
several volumes of verse followed. In recent years he has resided at 
Indianapolis, but he has traveled widely, and has been unusually suc- 
cessful in giving readings from his own verse. 

THE OLD MAN AND JIM 

Old man never had much to say — 

'Ceptin' to Jim, — 
And Jim was the wildest boy he had — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
Never heerd him speak but once 5 

Er twice in my life, — and first time was 
When the army broke out, and Jim he went, 
The old man backin' him, fer three months ; 
And all 'at I heerd the old man say 
Was, jes' as we turned to start away, — 10 

" Well, good-by, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 

'Peared like he was more satisfied 

Jes' lookiri' at Jim 
And likin' him all to hisse'f-like, see? — 15 

'Cause he was jes' wrapped up in him ! 
And over and over I mind the day 
The old man come and stood round in the way 
While we was drillin', a-watchin' Jim — 
And down at the deepot a-heerin' him say, 20 

" Well, good-by, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 



RILEY 297 

Never was nothin' about the farm 

Disting'ished Jim ; 
Neighbors all ust to wonder why 

The old man 'peared wrapped up in him : 
But when Cap. Biggler, he writ back . 

'At Jim was the bravest boy we had 
In the whole dern rigiment, white er black, 
And his fightin' good as his farmin' bad — 
'At he had led, with a bullet clean 
Bored through his thigh, and carried the flag 10 

Through the bloodiest battle you ever seen, — 
The old man wound up a letter to him 
'At Cap. read to us, 'at said : " Tell Jim 

Good-by, 

And take keer of hisse'f ! " 15 

Jim come home jes' long enough 

To take the whim 
'At he'd like to go back in the calvery — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 
Jim 'lowed 'at he'd had sich luck afore, 20 

Guessed he'd tackle her three years more. 
And the old man give him a colt he'd raised. 
And follered him over to Camp Ben Wade, 
And laid around fer a week er so, 
Watchin' Jim on dress-parade — 25 

'Tel finally he rid away, 
And last he heerd was the old man say, — 

" Well, good-by, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 

Tuk the papers, the old man did, 30 

A-watchin' fer Jim, 
Fully believin' he'd make his mark 

Some way — jes' wrapped up in him ! — 



298 LATER PERIOD 

And many a time the word 'ud come 

'At stirred him up Hke the tap of a drum — 

At Petersburg, fer instunce, where 

Jim rid right into their cannons there, 

And tuk 'em, and p'inted 'em t'other way, 5 

And socked it home to the boys in gray, 

As they skooted fer timber, and on and on — 

Jim a Heutenant, and one arm gone. 

And the old man's words in his mind all day, — 

" Well, good-by, Jim : 10 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 

Think of a private, now, perhaps, 

We'll say like Jim, 
'At's dumb clean up to the shoulder-straps — 

And the old man jes' wrapped up in him ! 15 

Think of him — with the war plum' through, 
And the glorious old Red-White-and-Blue 
A-laughin' the news down over Jim, 
And the old man, bendin' over him — 
The surgeon turnin' away with tears 20 

'At hadn't leaked fer years and years, 
As the hand of the dyin' boy clung to 
His Father's, the old voice in his ears, — 

" Well, good-by, Jim : 

Take keer of yourse'f ! " 25 

IKE WALTON'S PRAYER ^ * 

I CRAVE, dear Lord, 

No boundless hoard 

Of gold and gear, 

Nor jewels fine, 

1 Used by special permission of The Bobbs-Merrill Company, publishers. From 
After-whiles. Copyright, 1891. 



RILEY 299 

Nor lands, nor kine, 
Nor treasure heaps of anything. — 

Let but a little hut be mine 
Where at the hearthstone I may hear 

The cricket sing, 5 

And have the shine 
Of one glad woman's eyes to make. 
For my poor sake, 

Our simple home a place divine ; — 
Just the wee cot — the cricket's chirr — 10 

Love, and the smiling face of her. 

I pray not for 
Great riches, nor 
For vast estates and castle-halls, — 
Give me to hear the bare footfalls 15 

Of children o'er 
An oaken floor 
New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread 
With but the tiny coverlet 

And pillow for the baby's head ; 20 

And, pray Thou, may 
The door stand open and the day 
Send ever in a gentle breeze, 
With fragrance from the locust-trees, 

And drowsy moan of doves, and blur 25 
Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees, 

With afterhushes of the stir 
Of intermingling sounds, and then 

The goodwife and the smile of her 
Filling the silences again — 30 

The cricket's call, 

And the wee cot, 
Dear Lord of all, 
Deny me not ! 



300 LATER PERIOD 

I pray not that 
Men tremble at 
My power of place 
And lordly sway, — 
I only pray for simple grace 
To look my neighbor in the face 

Full honestly from day to day — 
Yield me his horny palm to hold, 
And I'll not pray 
For gold ; — 
The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, 
It hath the kingliest smile on earth — 
The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, 
Hath never need of coronet. 
And so I reach. 

Dear Lord, to Thee, 
And do beseech 
Thou givest me 
The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr. 
Love, and the glad sweet face of her ! 



CHARLES LEONARD MOORE 

1854- 

Mr. Moore was born at Philadelphia. He is a lawyer by profession, 
but has filled a diplomatic post at San Antonio, Brazil, and he has pub- 
lished several volumes of verse. 

TO ENGLAND 

Now England lessens on my sight ; 

The bastioned front of Wales, 
Discolored and indefinite, 

There like a cloud wreath sails : 



MOORE 301 

A league, and all those thronging hills 

Must sink beneath the sea ; 
But while one touch of Memory thrills 

They yet shall stay with me. 

I claim no birthright in yon sod, 5 

Though thence my blood and name ; 
My sires another region trod, 

Fought for another fame ; 
Yet a son's tear this moment wrongs 

My eager watching eyes, 10 

Land of the lordliest deeds and songs 

Since Greece was great and wise ! 

Thou hedgerow thing that queenest the Earth, 

What magic hast ? —what art ? 
A thousand years of work and worth 15 

Are clustered at thy heart : 
The ghosts of those that made thee free 

To throng thy hearth are wont ; 
And as thy richest reliquary 

Thou wearest thy Abbey's front 1 20 

Aye, ere my distance is complete 

I see thy heroes come 
And crowd yon shadowy mountain seat, 

Still guardians of their home ; 
Thy Drake, thy Nelson, and thy Bruce 25 

Glow out o'er dusky tides ; 
The rival Roses blend in truce, 

And King with Roundhead rides. 

And with these phantoms born to last, 

A storm of music breaks ; 30 

And bards, pavilioned in the past, — 

Each from his tomb awakes ! 



302 LATER PERIOD 

The ring and glitter of thy swords, 

Thy lovers' bloom and breath, 
By them transmuted into words. 

Redeem the world from death. 

My path is West ! My heart before 5 

Bounds o'er the dancing wave ; 
Yet something's left I must deplore — 

A magic wild and grave : 
Though Honor live and Romance dwell 

By mine own streams and woods, 10 

Yet not in spire and keep so well 

Are built such lofty moods. 

England, perchance our love were more 

If we were matched and met 
In battle squadron on the shore, 15 

Or here on ocean set : 
How were all other banners furled 

If that great duel rose ! 
For we alone in all the world 

Are worthy to be foes. 20 

If we should fail or you should fly, 

'Twere but a twinned disgrace, 
For both are bound to bear on high 

The laurels of one race : — 
No fear ! new blooms shall bud above 25 

Upon the ancient wreath. 
For both can gentle be to Love, 

And insolent to Death, 

Land of the lion-hearted brood, 

I breathe a last adieu ; 30 

To Her who reigns across the flood 

My loyalty is true : 



LUDERS 303 

But with my service to her o'er, 

Thou, England, ownest the rest, 
For I must worship and adore 

Whate'er is brave and best. 

CHARLES HENRY LUDERS 

1858-1891 

An unusually promising career was cut short by the early death of 
Luders. He was a frequent contributor to the magazines, in both prose 
and verse, and left behind one volume of poetry. He was born in 
Philadelphia, where he died. 

THE FOUR WINDS 1 

Wind of the North, 5 

Wind of the Norland snows. 

Wind of the winnowed skies, and sharp, clear stars, — 

Blow cold and keen across the naked hills, 

And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films, 

And blur the casement squares with glittering ice, 10 

But go not near my love. 

Wind of the West, 

Wind of the few, far clouds. 

Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands, — 

Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains, 15 

And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens. 

And sway the grasses and the mountain pines, 

But let my dear one rest. 

Wind of the East, 

Wind of the sunrise seas, 20 

Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains, — 
Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine, 

1 From The Dead Nymph and Other Poems. Copyright, 1891, by Charles 
Scribner's Sons. 



304 LATER PERIOD 

And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars, 
And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves, 
Yet keep thou from my love. 

But thou, sweet wind ! 

Wind of the fragrant South, 5 

Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose, — 

Over magnolia blooms and lilied lakes 

And flowering forests come with dewy wings. 

And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss 

The low mound where she lies. 10 

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER 

1855-1896 

BuNNER was for several years the chief editor of Pnck. He was born 
at Oswego, New York, and died at Nutley, New Jersey. Both in fiction 
and in verse his popularity was extensive in his lifetime, and a few of 
his poems, marked by grace and lightness of touch, bid fair to live long. 
His joyous spirit won him a wide circle of devoted friends. 

THE WAY TO ARCADY^ 

Oh, whafs the way to Arcady, 

To Arcady, to Arcady ; 
Oh, whafs the way to Arcady, 

Where all the leaves are merry ? 

Oh, what's the way to Arcady ? 15 

The spring is rustling in the tree, — 
The tree the wind is blowing through, — 

It sets the blossoms flickering white. 
I knew not skies could burn so blue 

Nor any breezes blow so light. 20 

They blow an old-time way for me. 
Across the world to Arcady. 

1 From Poems of H. C. Bunner. Copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, 1899, by Charles 
Scribner's Sons. 



BUNNER 305 

Oh, what's the way to Arcady ? 

Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, 

Quit mocking of the song bird's note. 

How have you heart for any tune. 

You with the wayworn russet shoon ? 5 

Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, 

Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. 

I'll brim it well with pieces red, 

If you will tell the way to tread. 

Oh, I am bound for Arcady, 10 

And if you. but keep pace with me 
You tread the way to Arcady. 

And where away lies Arcady, 

And how long yet may the journey be ? 

Ah, that (quoth he) I do not knozv : 15 

Across the clover and the snow — 
Across the frost, across the flowers — 
Through summer seconds and winter hours, 
Fve trod the way my whole life long, 

And know not now where it may be ; 20 

My guide is but the stir to song. 
That tells me I cannot go wrojig, 

Or clear or dark the pathway be 

Upon the road to Arcady. 

But how shall I do who cannot sing ? 25 

I was wont to sing, once on a time, — 

There is never an echo now to ring 

Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme. 

'7}j strange you cannot sing (quoth he), — 
The folk all sing in Arcady. . 30 

long's am. poems — 20 



306 LATER PERIOD 

But how may he find Arcady 
Who hath nor youth nor melody ? 

What, know you not, old man (quoth he), — 
Your hair is white, your face is wise, — 
That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes 5 

Who hopes to see fair Arcady ? 

No gold can buy you entrance there; 

But beggared Love may all go bare — 

No wisdotn won with weariness ; 

But Love goes in with Folly's dress — 10 

No fa?ne that wit could ever win ; 

Biit only Love 7nay lead Love in 
To Arcady, to Arcady. 

Ah, woe is me, through all my days 

Wisdom and wealth I both have got, 15 

And fame and name, and great men's praise ; 

But Love, ah Love ! I have it not. 
There was a time, when life was new — 

But far away, and half forgot — 
I only know her eyes were blue ; 20 

But Love — I fear I knew it not. 
We did not wed, for lack of gold. 
And she is dead, and I am old. 
All things have come since then to me, 
Save Love, ah Love ! and Arcady. 25 

Ah, then L fear ive part (quoth he), — 
My wafs for Love and Arcady. 

But you, you fare alone, like me ; 

The gray is likewise in your hair. 

What love have you to lead you there, 30 

To Arcady, to Arcady ? 



BUNNER 307 

Ah, no, not lonely do I fare ; 

My true companion'' s Memory. 
With Love he fills the Springtime air ; 

With Love he clothes the Winter tree. 
Oh, past this poor horizon'' s bound 5 

My song goes straight to one who stands, — 
Her face all gladdening at the sound, — 

To lead me to the Spring-green lands, 
To wander with enlacing hands. 

The songs within my breast that stir 10 

Are all of her, are all of her. 
My maid is dead long years (quoth he), — 
She waits for me ifi Arcady. 

Oh, yon''s the ivay to Arcady, 

To Arcady, to Arcady ; 1^ 

Oh, yon^s the way to Arcady, 

Where all the leaves are merry. 

THE CHAPERON 1 

I TAKE my chaperon to the play — 
She thinks she's taking me. 

And the gilded youth who owns the box, 20 

A proud young man is he ; 

But how would his young heart be hurt 
If he could only know 
That not for his sweet sake I go 
Nor yet to see the trifling show ; 25 

But to see my chaperon flirt. 

Her eyes beneath her snowy hair 
They sparkle young as mine ; 

1 From Poems of H, C, Bunner, Copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, 1899, by Charles 
Scribner's Sons. 



308 LATER PERIOD 

There's scarce a wrinkle in her hand 

So delicate and fine. 
And when my chaperon is seen, 

They come from everywhere — 

The dear old boys with silvery hair, 5 

With old-time grace and old-time air, 
To greet their old-time queen. 

They bow as my young Midas here 
Will never learn to bow 

(The dancing masters do not teach 10 

That gracious reverence now) ; 

With voices quavering just a bit, 

They play their old parts through, 

They talk of folk who used to woo, 

Of hearts that broke in 'fifty-two — 15 

Now none the worse for it. 

And as those aged crickets chirp 
I watch my chaperon's face. 

And see the dear old features take 

A new and tender grace ; 20 

And in her happy eyes I see 

Her youth awakening bright. 
With all its hope, desire, delight — 
Ah, me ! I wish that I were quite 

As young — as young as she ! 25 

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN 
1860- 

One of the best-known contributors 'of verse to magazines to-day is 
Mr. Sherman. He was born at Peekskill, New York, and was graduated 
from Columbia, where he holds the position of professor of architec- 
ture. He is the author of two or three volumes of verse. 



SHERMAN 309 

ON A GREEK VASE 

Divinely shapen cup, thy lip 

Unto me seemeth thus to speak : 
" Behold in me the workmanship, 

The grace and cunning of a Greek! 

" Long ages since he mixed the clay, 5 

Whose sense of symmetry was such, 
The labor of a single day, 

Immortal grew beneath his touch. 

" For dreaming while his fingers went 

Around this slender neck of mine, 10 

The form of her he loved was blent 

With every matchless curve and line. 

" Her loveliness to me he gave 

Who gave unto herself his heart, 
That love and beauty from the grave ' 15 

Might rise and live again in art." 

And hearing from thy lips this tale 

Of love and skill, of art and grace. 
Thou seem'st to me no more the_ frail 

Memento of an older race : 20 

But in thy form divinely wrought 

And figured o'er with fret and scroll, 
I dream, by happy chance was caught, 

And dwelleth now, that maiden's soul. 

ON SOME BUTTERCUPS 

A LITTLE way below her chin, 25 

Caught in her bosom's snowy hem, 
Some buttercups are fastened in, — 

Ah, how I envy them ! 



310 LATER PERIOD 

They do not miss their meadow place, 
Nor are they conscious that their skies 

Are not the heavens, but her face, 
Her hair, and mild blue eyes. 

There, in the downy meshes pinned, 5 

Such sweet illusions haunt their rest ; 

They think her breath the fragrant wind, 
And tremble on her breast ; 

As if, close to her heart, they heard 

A captive secret slip its cell, 10 

And with desire were sudden stirred 

To find a voice and tell ! 

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY 

1861- 

Miss GuiNEY was born at Boston. Most of her life has been spent 
in and near Boston, where she has been busily occupied in literary 
work. She is the author of several volumes of essays and poems. 

THE WILD RIDE 

I HEAR in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, 
All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses; 
All night, f'om their stalls, the importunate tramping and neighing. 

Let cowards and laggards fall back ! but alert to the saddle, 16 
Straight, grim, and abreast, go the weatherworn, galloping legion. 
With a stirrup-cup each to the lily of women that loves him. 

The trail is through dolor and dread, over crags and morasses ; 
There are shapes by the way, therp are things that appal or 

entice us : 20 

What odds ? We are knights, and our souls are but bent on the 

riding. 



HOVEY 3 1 1 

/ hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, 

All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses ; 

All night, frofji their stalls, the importunate tramping and neighing. 

We spur to a land of no name, outracing the stormwind ; 

We leap to the infinite dark, like the sparks from the anvil. 5 

Thou leadest, O God ! All's well with Thy troopers that follow. 



RICHARD HOVEY 

1864-1900 

Few poets of the younger generation gave such promise as Hovey, 
and at the time of his death the outlook seemed brightest. He was 
born at Normal, Indiana, and died in New York city. He was a 
graduate of Dartmouth College, and later studied theology, but finally 
turned to literature. He saw life on many sides in New York, as 
journalist, actor, dramatist, and lecturer on English literature. His 
best-known volume of poems is Songs from Vagabondia. 

THE CALL OF THE BUGLES 

Bugles ! 

And the Great Nation thrills and leaps to arms ! 

Prompt, unconstrained, immediate. 

Without misgiving and without debate, 10 

Too calm, too strong for fury or alarms. 

The people blossoms armies and puts forth 

The splendid summer of its noiseless might ; 

For the old sap of fight 

Mounts up in South and North, 15 

The thriU 

That tingled in our veins at Bunker Hill 

And brought to bloom July of 'Seventy-Six ! 

Pine and palmetto mix 

With the sequoia of the giant West 20 



312 LATER PERIOD 

Their ready banners and the hosts of war, 

Near and far, 

Sudden as dawn, 

Innumerable as forests, hear the call 

Of the bugles, 5 

The battle birds ! 

For not alone the brave, the fortunate, 

Who first of all 

Have put their knapsacks on — 

They are the valiant vanguard of the rest ! — lo 

Not they alone, but all our millions wait, 

Hand on sword, 

For the word 

That bids them bid the nations know us sons of Fate. 

Bugles ! 15 

And in my heart a cry, 

— Like a dim echo far and mournfully 

Blown back to answer them from yesterday ! 

A soldier's burial ! 

November hillsides and the falling leaves 20 

Where the Potomac broadens to the tide — 

The crisp autumnal silence and the gray 

(As of a solemn ritual 

Whose congregation glories as it grieves. 

Widowed but still a bride) — 25 

The long hills sloping to the wave, 

And the lone bugler standing by the grave ! 

Taps! 

The lonely call over the lonely woodlands — 

Rising like the soaring of wings, 30 

Like the flight of an eagle — 

Taps! 

They sound forever in my heart. 



HOVEY 313 

From farther still, 

The echoes — still the echoes ! 

The bugles of the dead 

Blowing from spectral ranks an answering cry ! 

The ghostly roll of immaterial drums, 5 

Beating reveille in the camps of dream, 

As from far meadows comes, 

Over the pathless hill, 

The irremeable stream. 

I hear the tread 10 

Of the great armies of the Past go by ; 

I hear, 

Across the wide sea wash of years between, 

Concord and Valley Forge shout back from the unseen. 

And Vicksburg give a cheer. 15 

Our cheer goes back to them, the valiant dead ! 

Laurels and roses on their graves to-day, 

Lilies and laurels over them we lay. 

And violets o'er each unforgotten head. 

Their honor still with the returning May 20 

Puts on its springtime in our memories. 

Nor till the last American with them lies 

Shall the young year forget to strew their bed. 

Peace to their ashes, sleep and honored rest ! 

But we — awake ! 25 

Ours to remember them with deeds like theirs ! 

From sea to sea the insistent bugle blares, 

The drums will not be still for any sake ; 

And as an eagle rears his crest, 

Defiant, from some tall pine of the North, 30 

And spreads his wings to fly, 

The banners of America go forth 

Against the clarion sky. 

Veteran and volunteer. 



314 LATER PERIOD 

They who were comrades of that shadow host, 

And the young brood whose veins renew the fires 

That burned in their great sires, 

Alike we hear 

The summons sounding clear 5 

From coast to coast, — 

The cry of the bugles, 

The battle birds ! 

Bugles ! 

The imperious bugles ! lo 

Still their call 

Soars like an exaltation to the sky. 

They call on men to fall. 

To die, — 

Remembered or forgotten, but a part 15 

Of the great beating of the Nation's heart! 

A call to sacrifice ! 

A call to victory ! 

Hark, in the Empyrean 

The battle birds ! 20 

The bugles ! 

UNMANIFEST DESTINY 

To what new fates, my country, far 

And unforeseen of foe or friend, 
Beneath what unexpected star. 

Compelled to what unchosen end, 25 

Across the sea that knows no beach 

The Admiral of Nations guides 
Thy bUnd obedient keels to reach 

The harbor where thy future rides ! 



HOVEY 3 1 5 

The guns that spoke at Lexington 

Knew not that God was planning then 

The trumpet word of Jefferson 
To bugle forth the rights of men. 

To them that wept and cursed Bull Run, 5 

What was it but despair and shame ? 

Who saw behind the cloud the sun ? 
Who knew that God was in the flame ? 

Had not defeat upon defeat, 

Disaster on disaster come, 10 

The slave's emancipated feet 

Had never marched behind the drum. 

There is a Hand that bends our deeds 
To mightier issues than we planned, 

Each son that triumphs, each that bleeds, 15 

My country, serves Its dark command. 

I do not know beneath what sky 

Nor on what seas shall be thy fate ; 
I only know it shall be high, 

I only know it shall be great. 20 

— July, i8g8. 

LOVE IN THE WINDS 

When I am standing on a mountain crest, 

Or hold the tiller in the dashing spray, 

My love of you leaps foaming in my breast, 

Shouts with the winds and sweeps to their foray ; 

My heart bounds with the horses of the sea, 25 

And plunges in the wild ride of the night, 

Flaunts in the teeth of tempest the large glee 



3l6 LATER PERIOD 

That rides out Fate and welcomes gods to fight. 
Ho, love, I laugh aloud for love of you, 
Glad that our love is fellow to rough weather, — 
No fretful orchid hothoused from the dew, 
But hale and hardy as the highland heather, 
Rejoicing in the wind that stings and thrills, 
Comrade of ocean, playmate of the hills. 



WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 

1869- 

Mr. Moody was born at Spencer, Indiana, and was graduated in 
1893 from Harvard, where for a time he was an assistant in English. 
Later he became a member of the English department at the University 
of Chicago. While in college the unusual excellence of his verse was 
a matter of comment, and he has more than fulfilled his early promise. 
He has already published two volumes of poetry of marked power, and 
much is expected of him in the future. 

ROBERT GOULD SHAW 

(FROM "AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION") 

The wars we wage 

Are noble, and our battles still are won 

By justice for us, ere we lift the gage. 10 

We have not sold our loftiest heritage. 

The proud republic hath not stooped to cheat 

And scramble in the market place of war ; 

Her forehead weareth yet its solemn star. 

Here is her witness : this, her perfect son, 15 

This delicate and proud New England soul 

Who leads despised men, with- just-unshackled feet. 

Up the large ways where death and glory meet. 

To show all peoples that our shame is done, 

That once more we are clean and spirit-whole. 20 



MOODY 317 

Crouched in the sea fog on the moaning sand 

All night he lay, speaking some simple word 

From hour to hour to the slow minds that heard, 

Holding each poor life gently in his hand 

And breathing on the base rejected clay 5 

Till each dark face shone mystical and grand 

Against the breaking day ; 

And lo, the shard the potter cast away 

Was grown a fiery chalice crystal-fine, 

Fulfilled of the divine 10 

Great wine of battle wrath by God's ring-finger stirred. 

Then upward, where the shadowy bastion loomed 

Huge on the mountain in the wet sea light, 

Whence now, and now, infernal flowerage bloomed, 

Bloomed, burst, and scattered down its deadly seed, — 15 

They swept, and died like freemen on the height. 

Like freemen, and like men of noble breed ; 

And when the battle fell away at night 

By hasty and contemptuous hands were thrust 

Obscurely in a common grave with him 20 

The fair-haired keeper of their love and trust. 

Now limb doth mingle with dissolved limb 

In nature's busy old democracy 

To flush the mountain laurel when she blows 

Sweet by the southern sea, 25 

And heart with crumbled heart climbs in the rose : — 

The untaught hearts with the high heart that knew 

This mountain fortress for no earthly hold 

Of temporal quarrel, but the bastion old 

Of spiritual wrong, 30 

Built by an unjust nation sheer and strong, 

Expugnable but by a nation's rue 

And bowing down before that equal shrine 

By all men held divine. 

Whereof his band and he were the most holy sign. 35 



3l8 LATER PERIOD 

WE ARE OUR FATHERS' SONS 

(FROM "AN ODE IN TIME OF HESITATION") 

We are our fathers' sons : let those who lead us know ! 

'Twas only yesterday sick Cuba's cry 

Came up the tropic wind, " Now help us, for we die ! " 

Then Alabama heard, 

And rising, pale, to Maine and Idaho 5 

Shouted a burning word ; 

Proud state with proud impassioned state conferred, 

And at the lifting of a hand sprang forth. 

East, west, and south, and north. 

Beautiful armies. Oh, by the sweet blood and young lo 

Shed on the awful hill slope at San Juan, 

By the unforgotten names of eager boys 

Who might have tasted girls' love and been stung 

With the old mystic joys 

And starry griefs, now the spring nights come on, 15 

But that the heart of youth is generous, — 

We charge you, ye who lead us. 

Breathe on their chivalry no hint of stain ! 

Turn not their new-world victories to gain ! 

One least leaf plucked for chaffer from the bays 20 

Of their dear praise, 

One jot of their pure conquest put to hire. 

The implacable republic will require ; 

With clamor, in the glare and gaze of noon, 

Or subtly, coming as a thief at night, 25 

But surely, very surely, slow or soon 

That insult deep we deeply will requite. - 

Tempt not our weakness, our cupidity ! 

For save we let the island men go free. 

Those baffled and dislaureled ghosts 30 

Will curse us from the lamentable coasts 

Where walk the frustrate dead^ 



MOODY 319 

The cup of trembling shall be drained quite, 

Eaten the sour bread of astonishment, 

With ashes of the hearth shall be made white 

Our hair, and waiHng shall be in the tent : 

Then on your guiltier head 5 

Shall our intolerable self-disdain 

Wreak suddenly its anger and its pain ; 

For manifest in that disastrous light 

We shall discern the right 

And do it, tardily. — O ye who lead, 10 

Take heed ! 

Blindness we may forgive, but baseness we will smite. 

ON A SOLDIER FALLEN IN THE PHILIPPINES 

Streets of the roaring town, 

Hush for him, hush, be still ! 

He comes, who was stricken down 15 

Doing the word of our will. 

Hush ! Let him have his state, 

Give him his soldier's crown. 

The grists of trade can wait 

Their grinding at the mill, 20 

But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has blojvn. 
Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast 
of stone. 

Toll 1 Let the great bells toll 

Till the clashing air is dim. 

Did we wrong this parted soul ? 25 

We will make it up to him. 

Toll ! Let him never guess 

What work we set him to. 

Laurel, laurel, yes ; 

He did what we bade him do. ' 3° 



320 LATER PERIOD 

Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was 

good; 
Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own 

heart's blood. 

A flag for the soldier's bier 

Who dies that his land may live ; 

O, banners, banners here, 5 

That he doubt not nor misgive ! 

That he heed not from the tomb 

The evil days draw near 

When the nation, robed in gloom, 

With its faithless past shall strive. lo 

Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its 

island mark. 
Home to the heart of his darling land where she stumbled and 
sinned in the dark. 



CAROLINE DUER 

Miss DuER was born in New York city, where she now resides. She 
is the author, with her sister, of a volume of poems of unusual grace 
and vigor. 

AN 'international EPISODE 

"(MARCH IS, 1889) 

We were ordered to Samoa from the coast of Panama, 

And for two long months we sailed the unequal sea. 
Till we made the horseshoe harbor with its curving coral bar, 

Smelt the good green smell of grass and shrub and tree. 16 
We had barely room for swinging .with the tide — 

There were many of us crowded in the bay : 
Three Germans, and the English ship, beside 

Our three — and from the Trenton where she lay, 20 



DUER 321 

Through the sunset calms and after, 
We could hear the shrill, sweet laughter 

Of the children's voices on the shore at play. 

We all knew a storm was coming, but, dear God ! no man could 
dream 

Of the furious hell-horrors of that day : 5 

Through the roar of winds and waters we could hear wild voices 
scream — 

See the rocking masts reel by us through the spray. 
In the gale we drove and drifted helplessly, 

With our rudder gone, our engine fires drowned, 
And none might hope another hour to see ; icf 

For all the air was desperate with the sound 
Of the brave ships rent asunder — 
Of the shrieking souls sucked under, 

'Neath the waves, where many a good man's grave was found. 

About noon, upon our quarter, from the deeper gloom afar, 15 

Came the English man-of-war Calliope. 
" We have lost our anchors, comrades, and, though small the 
chances are. 

We must steer for safety and the open sea." 
Then we climbed aloft to cheer her as she passed 

Through the tempest and the blackness and the foam : 20 

" Now, God speed you, though the shout should be our last. 

Through the channel where the maddened breakers comb, 
Through the wild sea's hill and hollow, 
On the path we cannot follow. 

To your women and your children and your home." 25 

Oh! remember it, good brothers. We two people speak one 
tongue, 
And your native land was mother to our land ; 

long's am. poems — 21 



322 LATER PERIOD 

But the head, perhaps, is hasty when the nation's heart is young, 

And we prate of things we do not understand. 
But the day when we stood face to face with death, 

(Upon whose face few men may look and tell). 
As long as you could hear, or we had breath, 5 

Four hundred voices cheered you out of hell ! 
By the will of that stern chorus. 
By the motherland which bore us, 

Judge if we do not love each other well. 

GUY WETMORE CARRYL 

1873-1904 

This writer, a man of many gifts, was born in New York city, and 
was educated at Columbia. He chose literature as a profession, and 
wrote much for the periodicals. After various editorial labors, he be- 
came the representative at Paris of a large New York publishing house. 

WHEN THE GREAT GRAY SHIPS COME IN 

To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles 

of sea, 10 

On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles 

are free, 
And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and 

hill. 
Breaker and beach cry each to each, " 'Tis the Mother who 

calls ! Be still ! " 
Mother ! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm. 
Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign 

arm, 15 

Who summoned the guns of her jailor sons, who bade her 

navies roam, 
Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this 

time home ! 



CARRYL 323 

And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest, 
The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the 

golden west 
Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars, 
And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars ! 
Peace ! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade, 5 

Peace at last ! is the bugle blast the length of the long blockade, 
And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release, 
From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is " Peace ! Thank 

God for peace." 

Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show 

The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise 

and go, — 10 

How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear, 
South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land 

answered, " Here ! " 
For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's 

song 
Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with 

wrong. 
Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the 

decks they trod, 15 

Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their 

country's God ! 

Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free. 
To carry the hearts of the people to the uttermost ends of sea, 
To see the day steal up the bay where the enemy lies in wait. 
To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the 

strait : — 20 

But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for 

home. 
And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething 

foam. 



324 LATER PERIOD 

And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who 

win ! 
Thank God for peace ! Thank God for peace, when the great 

gray ships come in ! 

— New York Harbor, August 20, i8g8. 

JOSEPH B. GILDER 

1858- 

Mr. Gilder was born at Flushing, New York. He entered the Naval 
Academy at Annapolis, but resigned before finishing the course, and 
engaged in journalism. He and his sister, Miss Jeannette L. Gilder, 
are the editors of the Critic. Mr. Richard Watson Gilder, editor of 
the Century Magazine., is his brother. 

THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 

Untrammeled Giant of the West, 
With all of Nature's gifts endowed. 

With all of Heaven's mercies blessed, 5 

Nor of thy power unduly proud — 

Peerless in courage, force, and skill. 

And godlike in thy strength of will, — 

Before thy feet the ways divide : 

One path leads up to heights sublime ; 10 

Downward the other slopes, where bide 

The refuse and the wrecks of Time. 
Choose then, nor falter at the start, 
O choose the nobler path and part ! 

Be thou the guardian of the weak, 15 

Of the unfriended, thou the friend ; 

No guerdon for thy valor seek, 
No end beyond the avowed end. 

Wouldst thou thy godlike power preserve. 

Be godlike in the will to serve ! 20 



NOTES 

EARLY PERIOD 

The earliest attempts at literary production by the first American settlers 
were crude in manner and uninteresting in matter. There were, it is true, 
scholars among them, and there were men and women of refinement, feeling, 
and imagination. They had left England, too, when Shakespeare was at the 
top of his fame, and when poetry was the rule rather than the exception 
among men of wit. But the conditions of life in the western world were too 
exacting to admit of literary expression. Men were too busy with the ax, 
the plow, and the gun to take time to record the workings of their minds 
and hearts. Puritan theological ideas, furthermore, looked askance at all 
forms of art. Literary expression had to wait, therefore, until the foundations 
of the Republic were firmly laid. That there was intellectual activity during 
the colonial period is clearly shown by the output of sermons and theological 
treatises by such men as the Mathers, the Cottons, and Jonathan Edwards. 
But the poetic muse lagged. The first book published in America was a col- 
lection of hymns of New England divines now known as the Bay Psalm 
Book. Its verses were so crude and its rhymes so sprawling that some one 
has said that they " seem to have been hammered out on an anvil, by blows 
from a blacksmith's sledge." A few years later, another volume of American 
verse by Mistress Anne Bradstreet was published in London. These poems 
do not rise above mediocrity, nor do they smack of American soil. She could 
see little difference between the skies and flowers and birds of New England 
and those of the old country. Indeed, it was William Cullen Bryant who 
first discovered that American song birds were not English nightingales, and 
that the picturesque scenery of New England was different from the velvety 
lawns of old England. 

This dependence upon England was weakened by the Revolution, although 
the influence of England continued to be felt, and is felt to-day, but with 
diminishing force. Imitation of English literary models, both in form and 
in spirit, was, of course, perfectly natural. The early colonists were, in the 
main. Englishmen, and they brought with them English traditions and ways of 
thought. With the establishment of the Republic, however, there sprang up 
the feeling of nationality which speedily made its way into letters. The first 

325 



326 NOTES 

poet of note to give voice to this new consciousness was Philip Freneau. In 
his verse the red man appears for the first time as a romantic figure ; in it we 
smell the fragrance of the wild honeysuckle instead of the English hawthorn ; 
and in his patriotic verse we hear both the clash of arms and lament for the 
patriotic dead. 

What we may call the Early Period of American letters, then, began with 
Philip Freneau ; it ended with Thomas Dunn English. It was frequently 
marked both by extravagant though sincere patriotism and by flabby sentiment. 
Sentiment is often pushed so far that it degenerates into mere sentimentality. 
As to literary form also, some of the poems given in this collection would 
suffer if examined too closely, but they have found their way to the hearts of 
the people, and seem likely to stay there for a very long time. A few of the 
poets of this period — notably Willis and English — were contemporaries of 
the greater names which fall into the next period ; but the spirit and temper 
of their work places them beyond doubt among the writers of an earlier time. 
They made an effective appeal to this earlier generation, but their facile 
sentimentalism, obscured by poets of greater power in New England, was 
finally withered by the. heat of the Civil War. 

PHILIP FRENEAU 

Page i6. The Indian Burying Ground. In this poem the red man is 
described as being buried in an alert, watchful, sitting posture instead of 
being stretched out at full length, as if in sleep. Here is an appeal to the 
imagination which goes straight home; and it is this imaginative appeal, 
expressed directly and simply and freshly, that marks Freneau as the first 
American poet of real merit. One line of this poem, taken from the stanza 
next to the last, 

The htmter and the deer — a shade, 

was stolen by the English poet Campbell. Sir Walter Scott also borrowed 
a line from Freneau, and Professor Tyler says that an English lady took 
bodily one of Freneau's poems and published it as her own. Such marks 
of attention are, of course, flattering to the early American poet. 

17. The Wild Honeysuckle. It is a genuine pleasure to find native wild 
flowers appearing in American verse, even if they are used only to tell us that 
all charms decay. Freneau's eyes were open to the beauties of nature, but 
the strongest feeling that they aroused in hjm was one of gentle melancholy. 
No matter how joyously one of his poems on nature may begin, it is apt to 
end in tears and in sight of a grave. Joyous delight in nature appears first 
rather feebly in Bryant and breaks out rapturously in Emerson, both of 
whom show clearly the influence of the English poet Wordsworth. But 



NOTES 327 

Freneau and the other poets of the Early Period were still under the spell 
of Gray's Elegy and Young's Night Thoughts. 

18. Eutaw Springs. The battle of Eutaw Springs, one of the last 
battles of the Revolution, was fought in 1781 in lower South Carolina. It 
was a hotly contested fight, both sides claiming the victory. Freneau's poem 
rises almost to nobleness in its simplicity and restraint. The best line is the 
one in which he says of the American soldiers : — 

They took the spear — but left the shield. 

Page 19: lines i, 2. General Nathanael Greene was the American com- 
mander in this battle. He probably ranks next to Washington among the 
military leaders of the Revolution. This couplet may, at first glance, seem 
obscure. The meaning is, that the American soldiers, led by the standards 
of Greene, forced the British to retreat. 

19 : 5. Parthians. The Parthians were a wild tribe who lived east of 
Asia Minor, on the furthest border of what was once the Roman Empire. 
They were noted for their brisk frontier attacks on the Romans. They would 
make a dash, and» retreat as quickly, shooting back as they retreated. So 
" a Parthian shot " came to mean a shot sent back by those who were in 
retreat. Freneau speaks of the British as Parthians, because, while stub- 
bornly retreating from the battle field of Eutaw Springs, they killed many 
American troops. 

19 : 12. Phcebus, the sun. The poet simply expresses the hope that those 
who died for their country have gone to a more pleasant land. 

JOSEPH HOPKINSON 

19. Hail, Columbia. This ode will always be interesting to an American 
audience because of the circumstances that brought it forth. As literature 
pure and simple, it would probably not have lasted long, but when it was 
linked to music and had found its way to the popular heart, it became a 
vital force that is not likely to die soon. People with delicate nerves may 
be offended by the high key in which it is pitched, but a poem which makes 
a direct and sincere appeal to national patriotism has, in all countries and in 
all ages, been able to violate with impunity some of the minor rules of good 
taste. As a poem, it has directness, sincerity, and fervor ; but it is lacking 
in freshness of phrase, and in the still higher literary quality of imaginative 
intensity. 

FRANCIS SCOTl' KEY 

21. The Star-spangled Banner. This lyric, like many others of its class, 
has been embalmed by being set to popular music, and lives by reason of its 



328 NOTES 

patriotic appeal. It is vivid and spirited, and sincerely reflects the circum- 
stances under which it was written. 

CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE 

23. A Visit from St. Nicholas. Few poems have ever surpassed this in 
giving voice to the innocent, excited, and expectant joyousness of children at 
Christmas time. The verses trip along gayly, and the imagination is kept on 
the alert. All hearts are moved by the spirit of Christmas, and any piece of 
literature that makes a direct, graceful, and sincere appeal to this feeling is 
sure of popularity. 

JOHN PIERPONT 

25. The Exile at Rest. European themes were very rarely handled by 
the poets of the Early Period. The recent death and burial of Napoleon at 
St. Helena, however, did not fail to excite the public mind. In this poem 
allusions are made to Napoleon's battles in Egypt near the pyramids, as 
well as to his disastrous Russian campaign. The use by Pierpont of such 
worn phrases as " eagle flag " and " martial form " places him at once among 
the many imitators of Campbell and Byron. But the poem has compactness 
and proportion, and some hnes are musical, — 

The mournful murmur of the surge. 
The cloud'' s deep voice, the wind's low sigh. 

And it has at least one flash of imagination, — 

As round him heaved, while high he stood, 
A sior77iy and inconstant world. 

26. Warren's Address to the American Soldiers. This is an imaginary 
address of General Joseph Warren to his soldiers on the eve of the battle of 
Bunker Hill, in 1775. Warren was killed in this battle. He was a physician 
in Boston when the war broke out, and was one of the most ardent patriots 
of the Revolution. Pierpont's poem expresses well the feeling of the time, 
and it has directness and vividness. 

SAMUEL WOODWORTH 

27. The Bucket. Despite its poverty of literary merit,- this poem lives 
because it expresses a sentiment felt by all. Fondness for the recollections of 
childhood is not so strong as many other human feelings, but it is universal. 

RICHARD HENRY WILDE 

29. My Life is like the Summer Rose. This popular lyric expresses 
the gentle melancholy that was made popular both in England and America 



NOTES 329 

by Byron. Our grandfathers were no more melancholy at heart than we of 
to-day, but when they put pen to paper they followed the literary fashion of 
the time. These stanzas of Wilde's are graceful in conception, smooth in 
meter, and sustained in sentiment. This line has been justly praised, — 

On that lone shore loud vioatts the sea, 

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE 

30. Home, Sweet Home. These verses are commonplace in both thought 
and language, but they give expression in a simple way to the homing 
instinct, and this is the vital spark that keeps them alive. The words, too, 
have become so intertwined with the music that both bid fair to last 
together. 

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 

31. On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake. The genuine and almost 
romantic friendship that existed between Halleck and Drake is exquisitely set 
forth in this little elegy. The first stanza, by far the best, is happily phrased 
and shows real and deep feeling. In lyric quality and in genuine emotion, 
this poem marks a step in advance of the poetry already considered. The 
poem as a whole is very uneven, however, both in meter and language. 
Then, too, in the following couplet, — 

And long, zvhere thou art lying. 
Will tears the cold turf steep, — 

we have an example of that exaggerated sentiment which so pleased Halleck's 
generation. 

32. Marco Bozzaris. The struggles of the Greeks to keep their land out 
of the clutches of the Turks aroused the sympathy of the civilized world in 
the first quarter of the nineteenth century. The most spectacular thing that 
Byron ever did was to lay down his life for Grecian liberty. In this country 
the cause of Greece was espoused by such ardent young orators as Daniel 
Webster and Henry Clay. It is small wonder, then, that Halleck's poem 
should have been so popular in its day ; and it still holds the attention by 
its fire, vividness, and intense love of liberty. It is pitched in an oratorical 
key like Campbell's Hohenlinden, and, like the latter, it lends itself easily to 
schoolboy declamation. 

33 : 2. Suliote band. A band of Grecian troops from the city of Souli. 
Bozzaris, who lead this Grecian band, was killed in 1823. 

33 : 5. the Persian's thousands. The Persian army of Xerxes was defeated 
at the battle of Platsea (B.C. 479) by the Spartans and other Greeks. This 
was one of a series of victories which rid Greece of the Persians for all time. 



330 NOTES 

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 

36. The American Flag. Some of the crudities of this poem may be set 
down to the fact that Drake wrote it before he was twenty-four years of age. 
The first stanza, with its strained metaphors, comes perilously near being 
bombast. But the poem broadens and becomes more simple and direct as 
it goes on. In the stanza next to the last it approaches real imaginative 
power. As a whole, it is the stirring martial ring of the poem that makes 
the most lasting impression. 

EDWARD COATE PINKNEY 

39, 40. A Health. A Serenade. In metrical finish, in lyric ease, in grace- 
ful fancy, and in delicate feeling, these two songs far surpass anything writ- 
ten in America before Pinkney's time. They were not, however, indigenous 
to the soil. They are clearly a reflection of the English Cavalier poets ; they 
have something of the airy charm of Lovelace and the sweet graciousness of 
Waller and Herrick ; but in lyric quality they mark progressive development 
and point forward to Poe. A Health was written in honor of Mrs. Rebecca 
Somerville, of Baltimore ; A Serenade in honor of Miss Georgianna McCaus- 
land, whom the poet afterwards married. 



GEORGE POPE MORRIS 

41. Woodman, spare that Tree ! Simple ballads, if aptly expressed, are 
sure to find lasting recognition if there runs through them a thread of uni- 
versal sentiment, no matter how fragile this thread may be. Such a ballad 
is Woodman, spare that Tree ! The appeal which it makes is simple and 
homely, but it is effective. 

ALBERT GORTON GREENE 

42. The Baron's Last Banquet. In the feudal setting of this poem, as 
well as in its conventional phraseology, there is a reminiscence of Sir Walter 
Scott ; and in its vividness, compactness, and dramatic force, the influence of 
Byron can be clearly seen. It is an encouraging sign to see American poetry 
practicing its hand at several varieties of verse ; it is training itself for more 
powerful expression in the next generation. 

43 • 7- Paynhn, pagan. 

43 : 18. Gothic hall, a hall built in the mediaeval style of architecture. 

43 : 22. Armed cap-a-pie, armed from head to foot. 



NOTES 331 

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 

45. Unseen Spirits. In serious work, this poem shows Willis at his best. 
It has happy phrasing and imagination. It also touches human conduct 
more closely than any poem yet considered ; it gets nearer to what Professor 
Wendell calls " God's eternities." American poetry was beginning to shake 
off surface sentiment and to take hold of life seriously. 

46. Spring. Willis's lightness of touch and sprightliness of fancy give 
this worn theme a new charm. He also shows in the poem an appreciation 
of nature not very common in his forerunners. The end is marked by that 
sentimental moralizing which was extremely popular in Willis's day. 

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN 

47. Monterey. Monterey was one of the earlier battles of the Mexican 
War. Hoffman's poem is full of martial spirit, fittingly expressed, and it is 
free from the boastfulness and extravagance which mar so many battle songs. 
It has simplicity, directness, real feeling, and that fine restraint which is a 
sure mark of good taste. 

SAMUEL FRANCIS SMITH 

49. America. It is sometimes the fashion to speak lightly of this hymn. 
Its literary merits, to be sure, are not of the highest ; but any song which 
fairly sings itself, and which is embedded in the hearts of a people, deserves 
more than flippant consideration. 

PARK BENJAMIN 

50. The Old Sexton. In these verses there is a relapse into that very 
serious mood which early American writers got from Cowper and Gray. We 
catch here " a breath from the land of graves." The treatment of the sub- 
ject, however, is a little out of the ordinary manner, and it has some traces 
of imagination. The theme is commonplace, but it is never lacking in vital 
interest. 

EPES SARGENT 

51. A Life on the Ocean Wave. Sargent has put into these verses some- 
thing of the spontaneousness and freedom of the sea. Life on the open seas 
makes its appeal to the imagination of a great number of people ; even those 
who do not care for the " deep " when it is " rolling " like to read about it. 



332 NOTES 

PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE 

52. Florence Vane. Gentle sentiment, running off into sentimentality, 
characterizes this lyric ; but it has a charm which comes from dehcacy of feel- 
ing and grace of expression. It lacks depth of feeling, but it is free from the 
sickly and feeble sentiment which marked so much of the verse of this period; 
it is winning in its very simplicity and gentleness. It first appeared in the 
Gentleman^ s Magazine during the editorship of Poe. 

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH 

54. Ben Bolt. Barring the touch of sentimentality in the first stanza, this 
song rings true throughout. The poet strikes a falsetto note when he asks his 
old friend, Ben Bolt, if he does not remember sweet Alice, — 

Who zvept zvith delight when you gave her a smile, 
And trembled with fear at your frozvn. 

The remainder of the poem deals with those common but vital interests — 
the old mill, the old schoolhouse, the shaded nook, the friendships of youth 
— that have a lasting hold on the human heart. When we remember that 
these themes are handled with entire sincerity and genuineness of feeling, we 
do not wonder that the song, aided by the music, has kept its popularity. 
It is scarcely enough to dismiss it by saying that it was a popular concert-hall 
song in its day. Du Maurier used both the words and music effectively in 
Trilby; and to-day few songs in the English language are more widely 
known. 

MIDDLE PERIOD 



Bryant, Emerson, Longfellow, Whittier, Poe, Holmes, and Lowell 

These seven names stand out as the foremost men of letters yet produced 
in America. All of them were born in New England ; and all of them lived 
and died there except Bryant and Poe. 

The last fifty years of Bryant's life was spent in New York. He left there 
the impress of a great editor and of a high-minded citizen. But Bryant, the 
poet, belongs to New England. It was there that he received his early 
inspiration, and there he wrote much of his best poetry. In New York there 
was always about him a certain aloofness of manner and temper that seemed 
to indicate that he regarded his poetic side as something apart from the busy 
life of the metropolis. Poe, on the other hand, though a Bostonian by acci- 
dent of birth, was just as distinctly not a New Englander. By ancestry, by 



NOTES 333 

training, by affiliation, and by temperament, Poe was a child of the South ; 
but his poetry is of such a peculiar kind that it might have been written any- 
where. It is wholly a product of the imagination, and takes root in no soil. 
Whittier was a son of New England, pure and simple. Holmes was a Bos- 
tonian all his life, and never cared to be anything else. Longfellow and 
, Lowell represent the finest flower of New England culture, with an added 
grace borrowed from the Old World. Emerson, inheriting all that was best in 
the generations that preceded him, drawing into himself all that was best in 
his own generation, was the fit leader of the revival of letters in New Eng- 
land which followed the collapse of early Puritanism. In primal simplicity, 
in intellectual distinction, in catholicity of taste and feeling, and in his power 
to touch as with living fire the best that is in men's bosoms, he must be 
regarded as the foremost American man of letters. 

Additional Poets 

The other names of this period need not be mentioned here singly. They 
differ in degree rather than in kind from their more distinguished contempo- 
raries. Greater and lesser alike were vitally influenced by the revival of 
letters in New England, and nearly all shared in common the seriousness that 
accompanied the spirit of radical reform which culminated in the Civil War. 
These two influences — the New England revival of letters and the Civil 
War — were the dominant forces of the Middle Period ; and the most notable 
characteristics of the literature produced during this period are seriousness, 
strong feeling, consciousness of national growth and strength, a more pro- 
nounced individual note, and a greater mastery of literary form. 

During this period of our greatest literary importance, American letters 
were still influenced by European literature ; nor is this to be wondered at. 
The rich and varied field of English literature is both an American and an 
English inheritance. But while English models prevailed in the main, a 
more pronounced American note grew louder and stronger, — a note which 
reflected a new Anglo-Saxon life under new conditions. As compared with 
the great names in English poetry, the chief American poets lack energy, 
depth, range, brilliance, and the power of sustained flight ; but the in- 
heritance left us by American poets is precious on account of its real beauty, 
unaffected simplicity, unconscious purity, and lofty aspiration. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

58. Thanatopsis. The name of this poem comes from two Greek words 
meaning " view of death." It seems a little strange that a youth of seventeen 



334 NOTES 

should have written a poem on this subject, and it is still more remarkable 
that he should have written such a good one. The fact that Bryant was a 
delicate lad, and predisposed to consumption, may have influenced his mind 
in the choice of themes ; but his imagination never entirely freed itself from 
" the land of graves," even after he had developed, by means of careful habits 
and systematic exercise, into robust physical manhood. Then, too, in his 
earher years he was under the influence of Young and Cowper and others of 
the " churchyard school " ; but as he grew older the influence of Wordsworth 
grew stronger, and his work shows a more cheerful contemplation of nature. 

In Thanatopsis there is shown the greatest reverence for nature, and this 
reverence has a somberness which always appeals to a certain side of the 
Anglo-Saxon character. It also has calm resignation to whatever may await 
man after death. There is not a quiver or a shudder as to the future. Nor 
has death itself any terror. So far as the spirit and temper of the poem goes, 
it might have been written by an Anglo-Saxon poet soon after landing on 
English soil. The last nine lines — so full of stern courage and of a calmness 
of spirit almost majestic — were added to the poem by Bryant ten years after 
the original draft was made. Next to this passage, the best-known line is — 

Old Ocean'' s gray and inelaiicholy waste. 

In this poem, then, Bryant shows dignity, poise, reverence for nature, 
resignation to fate, and serene courage ; and it is all expressed in fitting 
language and in effective blank verse. 

60. The Flood of Years. This poem, written in Bryant's mature years, 
seems a sort of enlargement of Thanatopsis. It has some of the same som- 
berness and grimness. In the first part of the poem, one almost gets the 
impression that Bryant derives satisfaction from seeing the earthly doings 
of men and women swallowed up by the flood of the passing years; but at 
the close there is more mellowness, and warmer human feeling. The poem, 
as a whole, lacks the spontaneity and directness of Thanatopsis, but it has 
greater play of the imagination. 

65. The Battlefield. While Bryant sympathized with the antislavery 
movement, and in the Civil War supported with his pen the side of the Union, 
yet he was a man of peace rather than of war. And it was the victories 
of peace that seemed to him more worth while than the victories of war, — 
the victory of truth over falsehood, of liberty over tyranny, of enlightenment 
over ignorance. The third stanza from the end is good enough to make any 
poem endure. 

66. The Death of the Flowers. The first line is, of course, very 
familiar. On first reading the poem, one is apt to think of it as a mere echo 
from the graveyard ; but when it is remembered that it was written in 



NOTES 335 

memory of Bryant's sister, who died of consumption, the delicacy of the 
sentiment seems entirely fitting. The poem contains, too, mention of- more 
American birds and flowers than can be found in any American poem written 
before it. 

67. The Evening Wind. Bryant's human sympathy, however strong it 
may have been, did not often come to the surface. This poem contains more 
of it than is ordinarily found in his poetry. The play of the imagination, 
too, is attractive. The evening wind is thought of as bringing in from the 
sea healing and life to the weary and the ill, and then carrying out again to 
the mariners on the sea hints of the shore and of home. The last four lines 
have rarely been excelled for luminous beauty. 

69. To the Fringed Gentian. The gentian is a blue flower that covers 
the New England hills in autumn. Bryant's appreciation of its beauty is 
genuine and spontaneous, and his phraseology is felicitous ; but he could 
not help putting in at the end a glimpse of death. " Eternity," says Mr. 
Woodberry, " was always in the same room with him." 

69. To a Waterfowl. This poem was written not long after Thanatopsis, 
and first appeared in the North American Review. These two poems estab- 
lished Bryant's reputation as a poet. He never wrote anything better during 
his long life. It most assuredly has nobility, repose, proportion, and stead- 
fast faith. 

71. America. Bryant's patriotic verse often falls below his poems deal- 
ing with nature. This poem, however, in its fine restraint and in its deep 
feeling, far exceeds in merit any of the fervid, extravagant, patriotic verse of 
his predecessors. There is .no screech of the eagle in it, but there is warm 
and loving devotion and abiding trust. 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

75. Concord Hymn. These simple but noble lines, among the earliest of 
Einerson's verses, celebrate the fight which took place at the Concord Bridge, 
in 1775, between the Minutemen and the British. A monument was erected 
on the spot in 1836, not long after Emerson had gone to live in the Old 
Manse, at Concord, the house which his grandfather, the Rev. William 
Emerson, occupied at the time of the battle. The Old Manse is only a 
short distance from the battlefield. Hawthorne once lived in this house, 
and here he wrote his well-known volume, Mosses from an Old Manse. The 
building is still well preserved. The bridge mentioned in the first line is the 
one that spanned the Concord River near the battlefield. The river at this 
point is shallow and sluggish, and fringed with grasses. 

75. The Problem. In the first eight lines of this poem, and in the last 



336 NOTES 

two, Emerson sets forth his personal feeling toward formal religion. He 
likes a "church" and a "cowl," and "monastic aisles fall like sweet strains" 
upon his heart; but, in spite of this, he has no desire to be an ecclesiastic. 
He cares most of all for things of the spirit, and churches and bishops are 
external symbols of spirituality; but Emerson was so extremely sensitive on 
his spiritual side, that anything like formalism seemed to him inadequate. 
So much for Emerson's personal feeling as expressed in 1 he Problem. The 
key to the remainder of the poem may be found in these lines : — 

The hand that rounded Peter^s dome, 
And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, 
Wrought in a sad sincerity ; 
Himself from God he could not free ; 
He builded better than he knew ; 
The conscious stone to beauty grew. 

When turned into prose the lines would mean, that the hand that built St. 
Peter's and the other churches in Rome during the early Christian era built 
conscientiously, according to fixed plans (jvrought in a sad si7icerity), but 
that the Spirit of God worked mysteriously through the builder and caused 
him unconsciously to build something more beautiful than he had planned. 
This thought — the mysterious influence of God in adding greater beauty to 
art and life — runs through the entire poem. This is the problem that 
Emerson asks his readers to solve. 

76 : 4. Jove . . . Phidias. The Grecian sculptor Phidias did not create 
his statue of Jove " from a vain and shallow thought," but from conceptions 
of beauty and power derived from above. This mysterious influence is com- 
monly called inspiration. 

76 : 6. Delphic oracle. There was in early times an oracle at Delphi, a 
town in Greece, through which the gods were supposed to answer the inqui- 
ries of men, and to foretell the future. 

76 : 27. the Parthenon. The most famous and beautiful of all the Grecian 
temples. It was at Athens. 

77:22,23. This is an idea that Emerson expresses again and again, — 
that God is in everything and everybody, and that spiritual forces always 
make themselves felt everywhere. 

77: 24. the fathers wise. The early Christian church fathers. 

77 : 26. Old Chrysostom, best Augustine. These were two of the most 
prominent early church fathers. St. Chrysdstom, the patriarch of Constan- 
tinople, was noted for his eloquence. His name comes from two Greek 
words meaning golden-mouthed. This explains " Golden Lips " in line 28. 
St. Augustine was a writer of great influence on theological subjects. 



NOTES 337 

77 : 27. And he who blent both in his line. This refers to Jeremy Taylor 
(1613-1667), who is mentioned byname in line 29. He was an amiable, 
scholarly, and eloquent English divine. He was made a bishop by Charles II. 
Emerson means that Taylor, in his line of succession as a shining eccle- 
siastical light, blended in himself the good qualities of St. Chrysostom and 
of St. Augustine. Emerson feels the great charm of Taylor's personality 
as it is expressed in his portrait and in his writings; but he does not envy 
him his bishop's robes. 

77 : 28. mines : gold mines. There is a connection in thought here with 
" Golden Lips." 

78. Each and All. Both in Each and All and in The Problem, there are 
high and enduring thoughts expressed obscurely in some places and care- 
lessly in others. Unfortunately, many of Emerson's poems are marked 
by twisted and sprawling lines, and awkward, clumsy rhymes. This was 
due, not so much to carelessness, as to Emerson's feeling that matter was 
supremely more important than manner. All the very great poets, however, 
recognize clearly that immortal thoughts must be married to immortal verse. 

Let us examine closely this poem, Each ajid All. If Emerson had been 
a careful workman, he would probably have begun the poem with lines 1 1 
and 12: — 

All are needed by each one ; 
Nothing is fair or good alone. 

The central idea of the poem is expressed in these lines. In the first ten 
lines are four illustrations of this central idea. To put these illustrations first 
is unnatural, and tends to make the poem obscure. The clown and the heifer 
and the sexton are given as examples of the truth expressed in line 12, that — 

Nothing is fair or good alone. 

The thought expressed in lines 9 and 10 illustrates the truth that — 

All are needed by each one. 

From line 12 on to the end, the main thought is developed in an orderly way. 
When the sparrow (line 13) is taken from his alder bow and brought into a 
house, when the delicate shells (line 19) are brought away from the sea, and 
the graceful maid (line 29) is taken from the merry throng and placed in a 
hermitage, then all lose something of their beauty and charm : — 

Nothing is fair or good alone. 

79 : 4, 5. Then I said, " I covet truth ; 

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat." 
long's am. poems — 22 



338 NOTES 

Emerson does not mean by this that truth and beauty are opposites. He 
simply means that beauty torn from its setting lacks truth, and thereby 
becomes a cheat, for — 

All are needed by each one. 

In the last ten lines he looks about him and finds oaks and acorns and 
violets and the morning bird and the rolling river, all in their proper places 
and in perfect unison. Then he exclaims, — 

Beauty through my senses stole ; 

I yielded myself to the pe7-fect whole. 

79. Days. The days are, of course, personified when they are spoken of 
as the daughters of time. They are called " hypocritic " (in the first line of 
the poem) because they march along " muffled and dumb," giving no sign 
of the opportunities they bring to men. The poet, meditating idly in his 
garden, took only a few herbs and apples, whereas he might have had king- 
doms and stars. By failing to make good use of his time, by neglecting 
opportunities, he received only the scorn of the departing day. 

80. Forbearance. The first three lines of this poem teach forbearance 
and self-restraint.. 

80 : 3. At rich incn^s tables. The man of restraint is supposed to confine 
himself to plain fare and to avoid luxuries, 

80 : 7. A^obility more nobly to repay. The "high behavior" (line 5) that 
comes from self-restraint Emerson characterizes as "nobility." To refrain 
from praising it — because praise would be inadequate, or perhaps because 
praise might seem patronizing — would be a more noble way of repaying this 
nobility. 

The temper of the poem is in strict keeping with Emerson's theories of 
plain living and high thinking. It also embodies a rather common New Eng- 
land trait, — chariness in the bestowing of praise. 

80. The Humble-Bee. Emerson's first poem in this collection, the Con- 
cord Hymn, shows the author on his patriotic side ; in The Problem, Each 
and All, Days,z.-ixA Forbearance, we see him on his more subtle and obscure 
side, as he tries to interpret spiritual realities; and in the last three poems — 
The Humble-bee, The Snoiu-storm, and The Rhodora — we find in him a sen- 
suous delight in nature almost equal to that displayed by Wordsworth and 
Keats. 

Both the meter and the thread of thought in The Humble-bee seem to 
correspond to the clumsy but active movements of that " zigzag steerer." 
The poem has freedom of movement, gayety of feeling, quick play of the 
imagination, and unusual delight in all that appeals to the senses in out- 
door life. 



NOTES 339 

82. The Snow-storm. This poem is simply a picture of a snowstorm. 
All moral and spiritual elements are lacking ; and the human interest is also 
slight. 

The north wind (page 82, line 20), which supplies life and action to the 
piece, is personified as a skillful mason. The poem is written in dignified 
l)lank verse, which is in keeping with the impressive work done by the north 
wind. 

82 : 28. Parian. Paros, in Greece, was noted for the fine quality of its 
marble. 

82 : 31. Mauger, an obsolete word meaning in spite of. 

83. The Rhodora. Emerson expresses here fully his creed as regards the 
beautiful, — 

Beauty is its 07vn excuse for being, 

and he supplements this in the last line by saying that beauty came from God. 
Emerson thinks with Keats that — - 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever, 

but he goes a step further and looks up to the source of all beauty. 

In charming spontaneity, in directness, in proportion, in gentleness and 
grace, The Rhodora is by far the best poem that Emerson has left. Both the 
language and the rhythm are smooth and flowing, — qualities that Emerson 
sometimes lacked. 

83. Good-by, Proud World ! No poem of Emerson's expresses so accu- 
rately, perhaps, the poet's feeling of aloofness toward the bustling world, and at 
the same time his calm reliance for happiness upon himself and upon the 
simple aspects of nature. It is not the complaint of a man disgusted with the 
world — for Emerson admired men who do things — but of one who felt sure 
that, so far as he himself was concerned, there were other things better 
worth while than the things men usually strive after. He gives expression to 
this feeling in a way that is direct, luminous, and simple without being 
commonplace. 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

86. The Skeleton in Armor. There are in New England a few remains 
of peculiar stone structures, which lead some to believe that the Norsemen 
once dwelt there. This belief, however, is not held very widely. Longfellow, 
for poetical purposes, treats it as true. There is a stone tower at Newport, 
in Rhode Island, and there was unearthed at Fall River, in Massachusetts, a 
skeleton wearing a breastplate of metal. This skeleton, which was found 
buried in an upright position, was probably that of an American Indian, but 



340 NOTES 

the poet chooses to treat it as that of a Norse Viking, or pirate. He boldly 
transfers the manners and customs of piratical Norway to New England 
shores. 

In the first stanza, the poet questions the skeleton, who, in " a dull voice of 
woe," tells the story of his life, beginning at stanza three. 

87 : 9. I was a Viking old ! A Viking was an Old Norse sea pirate. In 
this line the Viking means that he was old when he died. He is young when 
the story begins. 

87 : II. Skald, a Norse singer of heroic poems ; a minstrel. 

87 : 12. Saga, the Old Norse goddess of history. 

87 : 30. were-wolfs. In Old Norse mythology the werewolf was a man 
transformed for a time into a wolf. 

88 : 13. Berserk'' s. A Berserk was a warrior in Old Norse mythology who 
fought furiously and without armor. The English form of the word would be 
Bare-shirt. 

8g : 7. Alute did the minstrels stand. Mute with astonishment at the bold- 
ness of the young Viking. 

go : 6. Skaw, a promontory ; cape. 

90 : 30. the lofty tower. This is supposed to be the tower at Newport. 

91 : 23. Skoal ! This was a term used in drinking healths in ancient 
Norway. 

gi. The Cumberland. Longfellow's poems concerning slavery and the 
Civil War lack the strong feeling and the sharp edge that mark similar work 
by Whittier and Lowell. The Cu??iberlajtd is perhaps the best of all. The 
poet's gentleness of spirit shines out in the last two stanzas. 

The fight between the Federal fleet of wooden warships, consisting of the 
Cumberland, the Congress, and other vessels, and the Confederate fleet, made 
up of the Merritnac, an iron-sheathed boat with an iron prow for ramming 
purposes, and three other gunboats, took place in Hampton Roads, Virginia, 
near the entrance to Chesapeake Bay, in 1862. The Cuniberlattd wz.?, rammed 
and sunk, the Congress surrendered, and the other Federal vessels scattered. 
In this fight, the superiority of iron-clad boats was so effectively demonstrated 
that it wrought a revolution in the navies of the world. 

91 : 27. the fortress across the bay. Fortress Monroe, on the west side of 
Chesapeake Bay. 

92 : 18. the monster^ s hide, the iron sheathing of the Alerrimac. 

g2 : 25. kraken. In Norway this is the name of a fabulous water animal 
of enormous size. The reference here is to the Merriniac. 

g2 : 27. wrack, the poetic form of wreck. 

g2 : 32. Still floated our flag. The Cumberland \\'z.% sunk in such shallow 
water that her masts still stuck out. 



NOTES 341 

93. The Wreck of the Hesperus. The Hesperus was wrecked on Nor- 
man's Woe, a group of rocks on the north coast of Cape Ann, near the town 
of Annisquam. 

The poem is a good imitation in meter and spirit of the old English ballads. 
It is also a good example of Longfellow's skill in handling the pathetic. 

96. The Village Blacksmith. Near Longfellow's house at Cambridge 
there stood for many years a blacksmith shop under a large chestnut tree. 
Longfellow may also have had in mind one of his own ancestors who was a 
blacksmith. The poem shows genuine sympathy with the life of the lowly, and 
the moral drawn is as wholesome as it is obvious. 

98. The Bridge. The poet is supposed to have had in mind the old bridge 
that spans the Charles River as it runs between Boston and Cambridge. The 
thoughts and feelings expressed in the poem are such as might come to any 
one at such a place and time, but they are phrased so gracefully and so rhyth- 
mically that the final effect is extremely pleasing. 

100. The Day is Done. In refined and pensive sentiment, in grace of lan- 
guage, and in flowing melody, this lyric is as good as anything Longfellow 
ever wrote. 

loi. My Lost Youth. Longfellow was born and brought up at Portland, 
Maine, in sight of the sea. In his boyish imagination, the islands he saw out 
in the sea were as the Hesperides (line 29), the islands in classical mythology 
which were on the western extremity of the earth, and on which were fabulous 
gardens of golden fruit. Longfellow's enthusiasm for the sea is expressed in 
many of his poems, but never so lovingly or so sincerely as here. Genuine 
feeling beats through every line. And he also expresses, as few poets have 
done, the puzzled thoughts of a boy, filled with wonder and with something 
like awe, concerning the mysteries of the great world. 

102 : 15. And the fort upon the Jiill. Fort Lawrence, at Portland. Long- 
fellow conceived the idea of writing this poem one day while he was lying idle 
near this fort and looking out to sea. He was in Portland on a visit, and as he 
lay there dreaming the recollections of his boyhood came to him in a flood. 

102 : 23. I remet}iber the sea- fight far away. He means that he recalls it in 
imagination. The fight took place in 1775, when the British stormed and 
burned the town. 

104. The Poet and His Songs. Among the last poems Longfellow wrote 
was this simple, sincere, and melodious expression of the poet's own feeling in 
regard to his art. He sincerely felt and believed that he was divinely directed 
to write. 

105. Nature. Longfellow delights in such simple but effective comparisons 
as are found in this sonnet. Here, too, is revealed his reverence for the ordi- 
nary courses of nature. AH natural changes he regarded as beneficent. 



342 NOTES 

io6. Hymn to the Night. The poet says in his diary that he tried to express 
in these Unes the thoughts and feelings that came to him as he sat by an open 
window looking out into the night. The poem has grace, strength, repose, and 
imaginative power in a high degree. 

io6 : 21. Orestes-like. Orestes was a hero in Greek tragedies who killed his 
mother, and in consequence was pursued by the Furies. 

1 06. In the Churchyard at Tarrytown. This sonnet is a tribute to 
Washington Irving, who lived and died and was buried near Tarrytown, on 
the Hudson River, a few miles above New York city. It is the tribute of a 
gentle poet to the gentlest of prose writers. 

107. The Republic. These are the last lines of that nobly patriotic poem, 
The Building of the Ship. They have an energy, a compactness, and a 
cumulative force to which Longfellow did not often attain. 

108. Daybreak. Many of Longfellow's best poetic qualities appear in this 
poem, — simplicity, directness, proportion, and aptness of phrase. At the 
end there is the element of surprise, which is rarely lacking in poetry of 
excellence. 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 

no. Proem. In this proem, or introduction, the poet modestly sets forth his 
tastes, his limitations, and his hopes. It is plain that he wishes above all 
things to be considered the poet of freedom. 

no : 3. The songs of Spenser'' s golden days. He means the poems of the 
Elizabethan period, of which Edmund Spenser, the author of The Faerie 
Queene, was one of the chief ornaments. 

no : 4. Arcadian Sidneys silvery phrase. Sir Philip Sidney, a brilliant 
courtier, soldier, and poet of the reign of Elizabeth, was the author of a prose 
romance called Arcadia. 

Ill : 13. unanointed eyes. The custom of anointing the head with oil was, 
among the early Jews, an act of consecration. Whittier means that his own 
eyes had no unusual power in observing nature. 

Ill : 26. MarvelVs wit. Andrew Marvell was a patriot, satirist, and minor 
poet of Milton's time. 

112. Ichabod. After Daniel Webster's famous reply to Hayne, he was 
regarded as the great champion of the Union against the doctrine of states' 
rights as proclaimed by John C. Calhoun and others, and as the opponent in 
general of all proslavery influences. In 1850, however, he made a speech 
in defense of a fugitive slave law which his. former admirers regarded as a bid 
for Southern support in his candidacy for the Presidential nomination. His 
change of attitude was received in humiliation and scorn by many of his 
former supporters. Whittier expresses in this poem the feelings of this class. 



NOTES 343 

Few poems deserve to rank higher than this for its reserve, intensity, and 
sustained dignity. 

113. The Lost Occasion. Ickadod was written in iS^o. Just thirty years 
later Whittier wrote another poem which is almost as good as Ichabod, and 
in which he magnanimously made amends for any possible injustice he may 
have done to the great orator and statesman in the first poem. The second 
poem, full of feeling and dignity, is just in its praise, and is also marked by 
reverence and tenderness. 

115. The Farewell. These lines show Whittier at his best as an anti- 
slavery poet. They have a rhythmical movement and a repressed fervor that 
make them effective. They are marred in places by such conventional 
phrases as "the tyrant's power" and " the fetters fall no more." 

113. Laus Deo ! This is an exultant song of praise and thanksgiving for 
the abolition of slavery. Whittier at last saw his dearest hopes realized, and 
he breaks out in sincere and joyous song ; and the tone of gladness is not 
so much personal as patriotic. 

120. Skipper Ireson's Ride. This ballad of life among the fisher folk of 
the Massachusetts coast is full of picturesque detail and vivid description, 
and it has rapidity of movement and dramatic power. 

120 : 3. Apuleius's Golden Ass. Apuleius, a Roman philosopher of the second 
century, a.d., compiled a romance called The Golden Ass. Magic plays an 
important part in it. 

120 : 4. one-eyed Calendar'' s horse of brass. In the Arabian Nights is a story 
of a prince who traveled about disguised as a one-eyed dervish. Among his 
many adventures was a ride through the air on a magical horse with wings. 

120: 6. Islani's prophet on Al-Bordk. Mohammed is said to have made a 
night journey from Mecca to Jerusalem, and thence to the seventh heaven, 
on a wondrous imaginary animal named Al-Borak. 

120 : 30. Mcenads. These were priestesses of Bacchus, the god of wine. 
The term is often applied, as it is here, to a woman beside herself with 
excitement. 

121 : 5. Chaleur Bay is in Canada, near Quebec. 

123. The Barefoot Boy. The wide popularity of this poem is probably 
due to the fact that Whittier draws for generations of grown-up barefoot 
boys a sincere and sympathetic picture of what they were in their boyhood 
days. 

125 : I. Apples of Hesperides. See note to page loi. 

125: 34. ;«(?27, toil, drudgery. 

126. Telling the Bees. It was an old custom in rural New England to 
tell the bees whenever a member of the family died, and to drape the hives 
in mourning. It was supposed that this ceremonial would keep them from 



344 NOTES 

seeking a new home. Lowell says that in this poem " description and senti- 
ment naturally inspire each other." The result of this happy blending is a 
poem of unusual charm. 

128. My Playmate. There is in this poem also the same skillful union of 
description and sentiment that Telling the Bees contains ; but the sentiment 
is gentle and pensive rather than pathetic. Both poems have lyrical charm ; 
and both produce their effect so surely that one is tempted to say that the 
feeling in them is personal. 

130. Amy Wentworth. It is doubtful if this attractive ballad is so well 
known as it deserves to be. The setting of the story is placed in one of the 
older New England seaport towns, Portsmouth, where the east winds come in 
fresh from Labrador. In such towns there survived, almost up to the Civil 
War, a flavor of colonial life. A few families still cherished their coats of 
arms, and otherwise kept faintly alive the traditions of aristocratic life in the 
mother country. A scion of such a family. Amy Wentworth, loves, and is 
loved by, a stalwart New England fisherman ; and both are happy. Here 
appears again the old, old theme that love knows no law. Such a story is 
common in the ballads of England and Scotland, but Whittier has given in 
it a fresh setting and adorned it anew with real human interest. 

132. The Eternal Goodness. No American poem of religious faith and 
devotion stands above this in sincerity of feeling and effectiveness of expression. 

EDGAR ALLAN POE 

139. To Helen. Universal praise has been bestowed upon this poem for 
its grace and delicacy of thought and for its perfection of lyrical form. 

The imagery of the poem is not clear at first reading. In the first stanza 
Helen is spoken of as a woman whose rare beauty soothed and charmed the 
" wayworn wanderer "; in the second stanza, her beauty is of such classic form 
that it suggests thoughts of ancient glory and grandeur ; while in the third, 
Helen is identified with Psyche, a statue of whom the poet sees in his " window- 
niche." Poe often invests human beings with more than earthly beauty and 
charm. 

139 : 2. Niccp.an. Nicaea was a town in Asia Minor. There was also a town 
in Italy of the same name. 

139 : 8. Naiad. In ancient mythology, the naiads were water nymphs. 

139: 14. Psyche, a beautiful maiden in Greek mythology; the personifica- 
tion of the human soul. 

139. To One in Paradise. The note struck in these lines is one of dis- 
pairing lament. The poem has the conciseness, the unity, and the proportion 
of the perfect lyric ; and the thought is perfectly clothed in fitting language 
,and rhythm. 



NOTES 345 

140. The Bells. No poet has gone further in making the sound fit the sense 
— in making the words suggest the thought — than Poe has in The 
Bells. He has also imparted to the poem a rapid movement that bears the 
reader along almost breathless. Furthermore, he attributes human qualities 
to the bells in a way that is startling. 

144. The Raven. One of Poe's most characteristic moods is dramatically 
set forth in The Raven. It is midnight in December. The fire light is cast- 
ing its shadows. The poet is dozing over his books when he is startled by a 
rap on the door. His mind is filled with dreams of his lost Lenore. With a 
beating heart he opens the door and peers out into the darkness. He sees 
no one, but hears the whispered word " Lenore." No sooner is he back in 
his chamber than he hears a tapping at his window lattice. He throws open 
the shutter, and in walks a strange, silent raven that perches itself above his 
chamber door. An excited and disordered brain now flings all sorts of ques- 
tions at the bird, who continues to sit and stare and answer stolidly, " Never- 
more." 

So much for the " machinery " of the poem, which is, of course, handled 
cleverly. The stage setting is such that the imagination is stirred and excited. 
We have mystery, despondency, disappointment, and at the end hopeless 
despair. What is the cause of all this ? There is only one tangible cause 
and that is the lost Lenore, whom the poet is not sure that he shall ever see 
again. Further than this one may read into the poem as much or as little as 
one chooses. The unearthly raven may be regarded as a reminder of an un- 
happy past, or as a prophet of evil for the future ; or it may simply be taken 
as a part of the " machinery " by which Poe set forth the prevailing mood of 
the poem, — that of hopeless lament. But the poem, however interpreted, 
is filled with strange melody and startling suggestions that affect the imagina- 
tion powerfully. 

145:17. Pallas, one of the names of Athena, the Greek goddess of 
wisdom. 

145 : 23. Plutonian. In ancient mythology, Pluto was the god of the lower 
regions. 

147:15. Aidenn, 'E.dL&n. 

148. The Haunted Palace. The first part of this poem contains a descrip- 
tion, good beyond all praise, of the palace, with its beautiful surroundings, 
that was erected in the dominion of the monarch Thought. Then come 
"evil things, in robes of sorrow," who assail this monarch and make him 
desolate. After this the melody becomes discordant, and a " hideous throng " 
rush out of the palace forever — "but smile no more." The "evil things, 
in robes of sorrow," may be taken to mean all manner of evil thoughts 
find desires that enter into the mind and destroy its spiritual beauty. The 



346 NOTES 

palace of Thought becomes a place haunted by a " hideous throng " of evil 
spirits. 

149 : 18. red-litten is an old form for red-lighted. 

149. The City in the Sea. Many critics regard this poem as the highest 
example of Poe's art. He paints for the imagination a picture of a phantom 
city lying alone, far off in the dim West, in a stagnant sea, where Death has 
made for himself a throne. No earthly light shines upon this city, but a light 
from out the lurid sea. No wind blows from a far-off happier sea. This sea 
is " hideously serene." Its waters are on a level with the gaping graves of 
the city. Suddenly there comes a slight stir in the air, and a slight move- 
ment on the wave. The city settles down, down, " amid no earthly moans," 
and is received with reverence by hell. 

It would be difficult for the imagination to draw a more vivid picture of 
complete desolation. 

151. Israfel. One writer has characterized Isra/el as "trashy"; but a 
greater critic, Mr. Stedman, says : " If I had any claim to make up a ' Par- 
nassus,' not perhaps of the most famous English lyrics, but of those which 
appeal strongly to my own poetic sense, and could select but one of Poe's, I 
confess that I should choose Israfel." 

The poem is different in spirit from most of Poe's work. There is no 
melancholy and no lament. It is filled with a spirit of exaltation. He recog- 
nizes the human limitations of earthly poets, and rejoices that Israfel could 
sing more divinely. He envies him his heavenly powers, for poetry with Poe 
was " not a purpose, but a passion." 

153. The Sleeper. Poe's mind loved to dwell upon such pictures of vanr 
ishing beauty as this poem contains. It is midnight in June, and all the 
beauty of external nature seems asleep. The beautiful lady, with the " length 
of tress," is also sleeping, but in the sleep of death. The poet hopes that 
her sleep may always be so deep. 

The poem contains scarcely a hint of life beyond the grave. This may be 
regarded as one of the moods of the poet. He seems to think for the mo- 
ment that endless sleep is a thing to be desired. It is a passing thought, 
however, for in other poems he speaks of love that shall be eternal. 

155. Ulalume. Poe wrote this poem not long after the death of his wife, 
and it is a personal lament filled with anguish. He imagines himself as walk- 
ing in the moonlight with Psyche, who is his soul personified. There is some- 
thing sinister in the aspect of nature itself which forebodes sorrow. The 
skies are ashen and the leaves are withering. The light of the stars has a 
strange pallor. The poet tries to conquer the gloom of his soul, but suddenly 
he comes upon the tomb of his lost Ulalume, and he remembers that it is the 
anniversary of his wife's death. The poem then closes in absolute gloom. 



NOTES 347 

By his imagination Poe created for the main incident of the poem (the 
finding of the tomb of his wife) a background which fits that incident; and he 
invested this background with the half-earthly and half-spiritual atmosphere 
of the grave. It was along this borderland that his imagination had its 
liveliest play. 

155 : 6. Auber. This lake and all other geographical terrhs in the poem 
existed only in Poe's imagination. 

155 : 12. Psyche, a beautiful maiden who, in Greek mythology, personified 
the soul. Cupid, the boy-god of love, married her. 

156 : 6. Astarte's. Astarte was the moon goddess of the ancient Phoeni- 
cians. 

156 : 8. Dian, the shortened poetic form of Diana, the Roman goddess of 
the moon, and also of the chase. 

156 : 13. the Lion, a sign of the zodiac; the constellation Leo. 

156 : 15. Lethean. In ancient mythology, Lethe was one of the rivers of 
Hades, whose waters, when drunk, caused forgetfulness of the past. 

158. Annabel Lee. This poem also was written shortly after the death of 
Poe's wife. It was perhaps the last poem that he wrote. The music of the 
lines has charmed thousands who care little for the sentiment. It is a story of 
disappointment and of deathless love. The sentiment is morbid, but the 
charm of the verse makes it seem very real. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

161. Old Ironsides was written for a Boston newspaper, just after Holmes 
had gone out from college. It was a spirited protest against the breaking 
up of the frigate Constitution, which had won a brilliant victory over the 
Guerrih-e in the War of 181 2. The feeling of the nation was so greatly 
stirred that the old frigate was allowed to slumber in peace for half a century 
in the Charlestown Navy Yard. 

162. The Last Leaf. Poems like this are often called " society verse." 
They are marked by conciseness, lightness of touch, grace of phrase, and 
refinement of feeling. The Last Leaf appeared in Holmes's first volume of 
verse. It has the mingling of seriousness and humor for which Holmes was 
noted, and the blending is done so deftly that there is never a jar. 

The original of this picture was Major Thomas Melville, who took part in 
the Boston " tea-party " affair. He was a well-known character about town 
in Holmes's boyhood. 

164. The Chambered Nautilus. In graceful imagination and in simple 
beauty of phrase, this is as perfect as anything Holmes wrote. 

164 : 5. Siren. The Sirens, in ancient mythology, were birds with the 
faces of women, found on the shores and islands of the Mediterranean, who, 



348 NOTES 

by their sweet voices, enticed ashore those who were sailing by, and then 
killed them. 

164 : 26. Triton, a fabled sea god, the son and trumpeter of Neptmie, the 
chief god of the sea. 

165. The Living Temple. It has been said that the practice of medicine 
has a tendency to make callous the feelings, and to blunt the imagination. 
Holmes, however, treats the human body reverently, as the mystic temple 
of the spirit. 

167. Wearing the Snow-line. Holmes rarely handled the sonnet with 
skill, but in this one he shows unity of conception, a sustained flow of melo- 
dious verse, and undoubted nobility of feeling. 

167. The Boys. This poem was read at a reunion of the Harvard class 
of 1829, on its thirtieth anniversary. It is a good example of Holmes's occa- 
sional verse, jocular at the beginning, but ending in seriousness and tender- 
ness. 

Most of the men referred to were men of note at the time of this celebra- 
tion, but the only name familiar to-day, outside of legal and academic circles, 
is that of the author of America — " Fate tried to conceal him by naming him 
Smith." 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 

171. What is so rare as a day in June ? (from The Vision of Sir Laun- 
fal). Lowell, as a poet of nature, is, perhaps, more spontaneous in these lines 
than in any he wrote. They are taken from the prelude of The Vision of 
Sir Launfal, a poem in which a young knight goes forth to seek for the 
Holy Grail, the cup which, according to tradition, our Lord drank from at 
the Last Supper. The blossoming June time typifies the young knight in the 
first flush of his powers. 

173. The Courtin'. This back-kitchen pastoral of New England farm 
life was inserted in 77ie Biglow Papers as a sort of prelude, and is in the 
same up-country Yankee dialect. Its charm lies in its simplicity and humor, 
and in its fidelity to local color and to human nature. 

175 : 6. the sekle, the sequel, the outcome. 

176 : 13. they was cried. The betrothal was announced in church. 

176. A Vision of Peace (from The Biglow Papers'). These stanzas were 
written near the close of the Civil War. The words are spoken by Hosea 
Biglow, a New England countryman, into whose mouth Lowell puts most of 
the words of The Biglow Papers. Lowell says," in the preface, that this up- 
country Yankee was " capable of district-school English," but that, when 
deeply stirred, he was apt to lapse into his native dialect. 

In the stanzas given here, Hosea Biglow, abiding quietly at home, pre- 



NOTES 349 

sumably too old to see active service, laments the loss in the war of " three 
likely lads " whom he once trundled on his knee, and wishes for that vic- 
torious peace which shall mean " a nation saved." Perhaps it is not too much 
to say that he speaks Lowell's own feelings, for three of the latter's young 
kinsmen fell in the war. 

178. Lincoln (from an Ode recited at the Ha7-vard Commemoration, 
July 21, 1865). When Lowell wrote this ode, from which is taken the stanza 
on Lincoln given here, his heart was still tender for the loss of those near 
him, and for the sorrows of many of his friends and acquaintances. The Ode 
is obscure in places, and seems lacking in passion ; but in sustained nobility 
of thought and feeling it shows Lowell at his best, and seems to be gaining 
in favor as time passes. It is doubtful, too, if the character of Lincoln has 
ever been more truthfully portrayed. The wonder is that this portrayal is so 
entirely free from the blurs that partisan feeling was prone to give to any 
picture painted in 1865. Lowell shows himself the true poet when he draws a 
portrait which all time is likely to accept. 

180. Virginia (from Under the Old Elm). When Washington took 
command of the American army at Cambridge, in 1775, a few days after the 
battle of Bunker Hill, he stood under an elm, near Cambridge Common, 
which is still well preserved. A stone at its base bears an inscription which 
tells of the event. In 1875, one hundred years after Washington had stood 
there, a celebration was held by the citizens of Cambridge, and Lowell read 
the poem from which these lines on Virginia are taken. Lowell pictures to 
the imagination the rude and disorganized army then gathered at Cambridge. 
He shows how Washington, in stature as well as in moral and intellectual 
qualities, towered above the other leaders gathered there, and how he infused 
his own spirit into the discordant elements, and made of them an effective 
American army. Then he praises the character of Washington in measured 
but exalted phrases, describing him as a 

High-poised example of great duties done. 

Finally, he breaks forth in words of generous praise for Virginia, who "gave 
us this imperial man." He takes occasion to make full and final reparation 
for anything harsh that he may have said against the South in The Biglow 
Papers, when partisan feeling ran strong, and makes an irresistible plea 
for the mutual good feeling that existed in " the dear old unestranged days." 
It is an interesting fact that Lowell and Whittier, the stoutest opponents of 
slavery among the New England men of letters, were the most magnanimous 
in their attitude toward the South after the war was fought and won. 

181. To the Dandelion. In felicity of phrase and in melody of verse, these 
lines show Lowell at his best as a poet of nature. His verse is often lacking 



350 NOTES 

in smoothness, and many of his rhymes are not above reproach; but here he 
shows unusual perfection of form, united with an attractive play of the fancy. 

182 : I. Eldorado. This is a Spanish word meaning " the golden region " ; 
a country fabled to be very rich in precious metals. 

182 : 18. The golden cuirassed bee. The cuirass is a breastplate of metal. 
The reference here is, of course, to the yellow breast of the bee. 

182 : 21. Sybaris was an ancient town of Italy, noted for its luxury. 

183. Hebe. Hebe was, in ancient mythology, the cupbearer of the gods. 
In this poem she is thought of as one who distributes the prizes of life. 
Lowell's love of moralizing appears often in his verse, but rarely with such 
graceful effect as in these lines. 

184. She Came and Went. Few poems of personal lament are so simple 
and sincere as this. 

185. Auf Wiedersehen. There is an elusive charm about these stanzas that 
is hard to put into words. Auf Wiedersehen is a German phrase equivalent to 
the French au revoir. There is no exact English equivalent. It means 
good-by, with the hope of meeting again. 

II. 

ADDITIONAL POETS 

WALT WHITMAN 

186. Captain! My Captain! Even Whitman's severest critics are will- 
ing to give hearty praise to this poem, which sets forth simply, fitly, and nobly 
the poet's intense personal loyalty to Lincoln, and his deep and sincere 
lament for the death of his great captain. The poem shows, too, that 
Whitman was a master of poetic form whenever he cared to be. Many of 
his admirers wish that he had put into proper metrical garb those bursts of 
noble feeling and those flights of the imagination which he chose to clothe in 
ragged language and formless meter. 

187. As Toilsome I wander'd Virginia's Woods. Tender human 
feeling and a spirit of comradeship are two of Whitman's most admirable 
traits. 

188. When Lilacs last in the Door-yard Bloom'd. This is Lincoln's 
burial hymn. It lacks the finish, directness, and exalted emotion of Captain ! 
My Captain ! but it has an idyllic charm of its own. In a vague way. Whit- 
man likens the elemental simplicity of Lincoln' to the everlasting simplicity of 
nature. Mr. Stedman regards this hymn and Lowell's Coinmemoration Ode 
as the two noblest elegies growing out of the events of the Civil War. 

189 : II. blozvs, blossoms. 



NOTES 351 

HENRY PETERSON 

193. From an Ode for Decoration Day. Such a poem as this marks the 
slow but sure growth of the spirit of reconciliation between the North and the 
South which sprang up after the Civil War. Its patriotic and generous spirit 
appeals to all minds, — a spirit which says : — 

A brave niarCs hah-ed pauses at the tomb. 

193 : 4. By Yorktowfi' s field and Montezuma^ s clime. The Revolution and 
the Mexican War are referred to. 

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY 

194. lo Victis. The commonplace thought, that those who are seemingly 
defeated in any given struggle are sometimes the real moral victors, has rarely 
been more impressively expressed than in this poem. 

195. 16. 77/^ war^rj, the early Christian martyrs in Rome. TWr^;, a base 
and cruel Roman emperor, who condemned many Christian martyrs to death 
during his reign. The Spartaiis, a brave band of Greeks, led by Leonidas, 
who withstood the Persians under Xerxes at Thermopylae. 

195 : 17. Socrates, an Athenian philosopher, condemned to death for teach- 
ing what was considered false doctrine. Pilate. Pontius Pilate, a Roman gov- 
ernor in Judea, under whom Christ was crucified. 

JULIA WARD HOWE 

196. Battle-Hymn of the Republic. These verses, written in 1861, 
were inspired by the sight of soldiers marching through Washington to 
the front. They have a moral and patriotic elevation of feeling, expressed 
with poetic grace and imagination, which places them far above most of the 
poetry of the period ; and it seems likely that their popularity will endure. 

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS 

197. On a Bust of Dante. Mr. Stedman says that this poem, "in structure, 
diction, loftiness of thought, is the peer of any modern lyric in our tongue." 
This praise may be too high, but the poem has admirable compactness, 
directness, and elevation of thought. 

Dr. Parsons belonged to an enthusiastic band of Dante scholars in America, 
eminent among whom should be mentioned Longfellow, Lowell, and Pro- 
fessor Charles Eliot Norton. 

Dante (1265-1331) was an Italian poet and soldier. He was the greatest 
of Italian poets, and his poetry takes rank with the great poetry of the 



352 NOTES 

world. His best-known work is the Divine Comedy, a vision of purgatory 
and paradise. In this vision he sees the good and the bad who have gone 
before him. 

Dante's spirit was embittered in his later years by political turmoil and 
exile. 

197 : I. this counterfeit. This bust of marble. 

197 : 2. Artio, a river in Italy, on which Florence is situated. 

197 : 4. Tuscan. Dante was born at Florence, in the district of Tuscany, 
which was long preeminent in letters and art. It is famous to-day for its art 
treasures. 

197 : II. Beatrice, i\i& heroine oi Dz.nie^% Divine Comedy. She represents 
his lofty conception of womanhood. 

197 : 12. Atichorite. Dante was not a monk, but his thin, stern, ascetic 
face gave him the appearance of a half-famished religious recluse who cared 
only for things of the spirit. 

197 : 13. Ghibelline's. The Ghibellines were, in Dante's day, a political 
party in Italy who took the side of the emperors in their struggles against the 
popes. Their opponents were the Guelfs, who sided with the popes in their 
attempts to increase the temporal power of the Church. Dante was a Ghibel- 
line. This was also the popular party. 

197 : 17. Cunice's cavern. Cumse was an early fortified town in Campania, 
Italy. The remains of subterranean passages and caverns may be seen there 
to-day. 

198 : 8. Corvo's hushed monastic shade. Dante may have sought refuge 
and rest at Corvo for a time during his exile. Sighs for peace and rest occur 
frequently in his poems. 

198 : 9. the Benedictine. In the Middle Ages, one of the most prominent 
of the monkish orders was the Benedictine, founded by St. Benedict. 

198 : 20. Dread scourge of many a guilty line. In his vision Dante places 
in hell and purgatory not only those who deserved ill of God in their life- 
time, but also many of his own political enemies. 

198 : 25. He used Rome's harlot for his mirth. He laughed to scorn the 
debaucheries of Rome. 

198 : 32. Latitim's other Virgil. Latium stands here for Rome or Italy. 
The line means that Dante occupied the literary position in the Italy of his 
day that Virgil occupied in the old days of Rome. 

THEODORE O'HARA 

199. The Bivouac of the Dead was written to commemorate the Ken- 
tuckians who fell at the battle of Buena Vista in the Mexican War. It 
falls short of the best poetry by reason of its somewhat hackneyed phrase- 



NOTES 353 

olog}', as well as by its want of restraint ; but it has sincere feeling and fully 
deserves its popularity. 

The " chieftain," mentioned in stanza 6, is General Zachary Taylor, a native 
of Kentucky, who commanded the American forces at Buena Vista. 

20I : 14. Angostura's plain, a pass near Buena Vista occupied by a part 
of the American army. 

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 

203. Drifting. Read's lightness of touch and graceful, if not powerful, 
play of the imagination ar^ perhaps nowhere seen to such advantage as in 
this poem. 

JOHN RANDOLPH THOMPSON 

206. Music in Camp. Thompson, who had written much partisan war 
verse, shows here the true fraternal feeling that all generous men, no matter 
on which side they fought, have come to feel more and more strongly. 

FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR 

209. Little Giffen. This simple and stirring ballad of a young private in 
the Confederate army is taken from real life, and it presents a vivid picture 
of a tragedy not uncommon in the stormy days of the Civil War. 

209 : 26. Johnston. General Joseph E. Johnston, the well-known Confeder- 
ate leader. 

210 : 2. Knights of the Golden Ring, the Knights of the Round Table, who 
gathered about King Arthur, a heroic figure in song and story in early British 
times. Many of the stories about King Arthur and his knights have been 
retold by Tennyson in his Idylls of the King. 

GEORGE HENRY BOKER 

210. A Ballad of Sir John Franklin. Sir John Franklin was a well- 
known arctic explorer. He made two expeditions in search of the north pole, 
and lost his life on the second expedition in 1847. The facts about his last 
struggles came to light ten years afterward. This poem of Boker's is a suc- 
cessful imitation of the old English ballad style. It is vivid and spirited, and 
well sets forth the courageous Anglo-Saxon's desire to push further the bounds 
of knowledge. 

215. Dirge for a Soldier. This impressive dirge was written in memory of 
General Philip Kearny, a dashing cavalry leader on the Federal side, who 
was killed at Chantilly, Virginia, in 1862. 
long's am. poems — 23 



354 NOTES 

BAYARD TAYLOR 

216. Bedouin Song. The Bedouins are children of the desert. They are 
of Arabian stock, and their wanderings cover the wild desert lands east of 
Palestine. They roam about in bands, carrying with them their wives and 
children and substance. They own no man as lord, and pay allegiance to no 
government. They are wanderers by instinct and by long habit. 

Bayard Taylor has put into this poem the atmosphere of the desert, — some- 
thing of its heat, freedom, and passion, — and he has done it with a lyric 
grace that is wholly effective. 

218. America (from the N'ational Ode, July 4, 1876). The simplicity, 
heartiness, and dignity of this ode, its generous spirit of democracy, and its 
confidence and hopefulness for the future, mark it apart as a poem of unusual 
strength and poise. 

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 

219. Abraham Lincoln. President Lincoln was shot and killed in Ford's 
Theater, Washington, on April 14, 1865, by John Wilkes Booth, an actor. 
This ode of Stoddard's is one of the best of the many laments written since 
Lincoln's death. It has sustained dignity, aptness of phrase, and a true 
appreciation of Lincoln's character. It is lacking, perhaps, in intensity of 
feeling. 

220 : 18. Lares. These were the gods of Roman mythology charged with 
the care of the home and of the state. 

FRANCIS MILES FINCH 

225. The Blue and the Gray. The healing of the scars made by the Civil 
War has been greatly helped along by such verse as this kindly and melodi- 
ous poem. 

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE 

227. The Vagabonds. As a picture of real life, on one particular side, this 
poem is vivid and dramatic, and full of humane feeling. 

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON 

231. A Grave in Hollywood Cemetery, Richmond (J. R. T.). This poem 
was written in memory of John Randolph Thompson, poet and journalist, who 
was born in Richmond, Virginia, and lived there many years. His last years, 
however, were spent in New York city as literary editor of the Evening Post, 
where he died. His body was brought to Richmond for burial in Hollywood 
Cemetery, where James Madison, Jefferson Davis, J. E. B. Stuart, and A. P. 
Hill are also buried. 



NOTES 355 

231 : II. Dante. Dante, the greatest of Italian poets, was exiled, for politi- 
cal reasons, from his native city, Florence. He died at Ravenna, but his 
body was brought back to Florence for burial. Thompson, however, was not 
an exile from Richmond, except by a stretch of the imagination. He went 
to New York because it offered a better field for the employment of his liter- 
ary abilities. 

232 : 10. The mystic cable. The ocean telegraph cable. 

232: 18. Provenfal-like. Provence is a district in southern France, noted 
for music and poetry. In early days many of its poets were strolling min- 
strels. The reference here is to Thompson's literary career in Richmond, 
London, and New York. 

232 : 24. Stuart. General J. E. B. Stuart, a brilliant Confederate cavalry 
leader, who was killed while defending Richmond against General Sheridan, 
in 1864. He was the theme of one of Thompson's stirring ballads. 

STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER 

233. My Old Kentucky Home. " Idealized negro melody " is a term that 
aptly fits such charming verse as this. It shows the old-time negro at his 
best, and it takes as a background the civilization of the old South when it 
was mellowest. Change and time have invested that age with delicate senti- 
ment and pensive grace. 

WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE 

234. Antony to Cleopatra. After the assassination of Julius Csesar, B.C. 44, 
Mark Antony, a friend of Caesar's, and Octavius Caesar, Caesar's adopted son, 
joined forces and utterly defeated the party of the assassins, chief among 
whom were Brutus and Cassius. Later on Antony became bewitched with 
the charms of Cleopatra, queen of Egypt, a woman of wondrous charm, who 
was the last of the ancient dynasty of the Ptolemies. Antony joined forces 
with Cleopatra and made war on Octavius Csesar, who had become the head 
of the Roman government. A decisive battle at sea resulted in the defeat of 
Antony and Cleopatra, who sailed away together to Egypt, where both com- 
mitted suicide. Egypt was then made a Roman province. 

234 : I. Egypt stands here for Cleopatra. 

234 : 3. Plutonian. Pluto was, in ancient mythology, the god of the lower 
regions. 

224 : 12, Actiuvi's fatal shore. Actium was a promontory in Greece, near 
which was fought the battle in which Antony and Cleopatra were defeated by 
Octavius Caesar. 

234 : 16. Triumvir. After the death of JuHus Caesar, Octavius Csesar, 



356 NOTES 

Antony, and Lepidus banded themselves together in a triumvirate. For a 
time they were the rulers of Rome. 

235 : 3- Odavia, the divorced wife of Antony. She was a sister of 
Octavius Csesar. 

235 : II. Stygian ho7-rors. In ancient mythology, the Styx was a river in 
Hades. 

235 : 23. his and Osiris, chief divinities in Egyptian mythology. 

235 : 24. Cleopatra — Rome —farexvell. When Antony saw that he was 
likely to be killed by the Roman soldiers who were invading Egypt, he slew 
himself with his own sword. Cleopatra also killed herself when she heard 
of his death. 

HENRY TIMROD 

236. Charleston. Timrod wrote this poem in 1863, when the cause of the 
Confederacy was waning. A few 'months later the city fell into the hands of 
the Federal forces. Charleston had enjoyed a breathing spell since the early 
days of the war, when Fort Sumter, then commanded by United States troops, 
was fired upon and captured. At the time this poem was written, Fort 
Sumter was in command of the Confederates, and, with Fort Moultrie, formed 
the main defenses of Charleston Harbor, an unusually beautiful sheet of water. 

236 : 3. In the broad stmlight of heroic deeds. Early in the Revolutionary 
War, in 1776, the British attacked the fortifications on Sullivan's Island, near 
the entrance of the harbor, but were repulsed by Colonel Moultrie. These 
fortifications were afterward called Fort Moultrie, the name which they bore 
in the Civil War. In 1780 the city was captured by the British. There are 
still in Charleston houses which bear the marks of shells thrown into the 
city by the British during the Revolutionary War, and by the Federals in the 
Civil War. 

236 : 9. Calpe is another name for Gibraltar. The fortifications of Charles- 
ton are situated, not on hills, but on sand dunes. 

237. At Magnolia Cemetery. These lines were warmly praised by Whittier 
for their beauty, simplicity, and sincerity. 

238 : I. behalf, in behalf of. 

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 

238. A Little While I fain would linger Yet. Although lacking in 
strength of feeling and vigor of imagination, Hayne has great refinement of 
mind and heart, and his verse is generally graceful and pleasing. 

240. The Mocking Bird (at night). The light, graceful play of Hayne's 
imagination appears to advantage in these lines. And no one has caught and 
put into verse so well the charm of the moclcing bird's song at night. 



NOTES 357 

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 

241. Kearny at Seven Pines. Few war lyrics surpass this in its spirited 
appeal to men of chivalrous instincts. General Philip Kearny was an intrepid 
Federal cavalry leader who was greatly admired by his soldiers, and his death 
at Chantilly, Virginia, in 1862, was greatly deplored. General R. E. Lee, 
who knew him in old army days, expressed great personal regret. 

The battle referred to in this poem. Seven Pines, was fought near Rich- 
mond during General McClellan's campaign in 1862. 

General Kearny was a native of New Jersey, and an oil portrait of him 
hangs in the capitol at Trenton. 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 

242. Unguarded Gates. In this poem Mr. Aldrich has taken a vital but 
everyday theme and handled it with deep patriotic feeling and unusual 
imaginative power. There are lines in it that make the blood beat faster, — 

Have a care 
Lest from thy brow the clustered stars be torn 
And trampled in the dust. 

^6,a,. Palabras Carinosas. No American poet has surpassed Mr. Aldrich 
as a writer of vers de societe. His verses are well-nigh perfect in form, highly 
finished, and he has the lightness of touch and the quick, graceful turn of the 
imagination so essential to a master of the beautiful art of writing occasional 
verse, — the short, sprightly verse of wit, satire, grace, or sentiment. Men 
who write this sort of verse are those who see things beneath the froth of 
society. 

The title of this poem is Spanish, and means "Affectionate Words." 

244. Batuschka. The title of this poem is a Russian word meaning " Little 
Father," a term of endearing loyalty often applied in folk-songs to the Czar, 
or Tsar, 

Mr. Aldrich has, with his usual imaginative vigor, put into these lines the 
tragedy that lies underneath the surface of Russian life. 

JOHN HAY 

246. Jim Bludso of the Prairie Belle is taken from Hay's first volume 
of verse, Pike County Ballads, the scenes of which are laid in Arkansas. 
It is the story of an uncouth engineer who saw his plain duty before him 
and sacrificed his life to it. The rude but often heroic qualities of the early 
Mississippi boatmen have also been admirably set forth in prose by Mark 



358 NOTES 

Twain. These early poems of Hay's and the stories of Mark Twain 
make very plain the virile stuff that went into the making of the Great West. 

JAMES RYDER RANDALL 

248. My Maryland. Perhaps most critics regard this as the finest martial 
lyric yet produced in America. It is so spirited, and the feeling expressed is 
so real and so fervid, as it leaps from stanza to stanza, and so sustained 
until the end, that the reader's pulses are quickened at every step. It is 
marred in one or two places by intemperate expressions, but its impression 
as a whole is entirely effective. 

The song was written in 1861, when the Massachusetts troops, on their 
way South, were fired upon in the streets of Baltimore. Mr. Randall, who 
was then living in New Orleans, read the report in a newspaper, and imme- 
diately sat down and wrote these lines. 

248 : 21. CarroWs sacred trust. The reference is to Charles Carroll, of 
Carrollton, one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence from Mary- 
land. 

248 : 22. Howard's warlike thrust. This refers to General John Eager 
Howard, who was a Maryland soldier of distinction in the Revolution. 

249 : 5, 6, 7. Ringgold, Watson, Lowe, and May were Marylanders who 
fought in the Mexican War. 

249 : 14. Sic se77iper ! This is a shortened form of Sic semper tyrannis, the 
motto on the coat of arms of Virginia. It may be freely translated — Down 
with tyrants ! 

250 : 4. Vandal, The Vandals, to whom the Federal soldiers are here com- 
pared, were a barbaric northern tribe who fell upon Rome in the days of her 
decay and despoiled her. There is not enough truth in the comparison to 
make it apt or effective. The extravagant language may be set down to the 
heated feeling of the time. The same may be said of line 17. 

ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN 

251. The Conquered Banner. Perhaps no poem of the war expresses so 
musically and so exactly the feeling at the South at the close of the Civil War 
as do these lines on the Confederate flag. With sincerity and with real emo- 
tion the poem gives voice to tender and hopeless regret. 

ANONYMOUS 

252. The Confederate Flag. Although lacking both the passionate and 

the musical qualities of Father Ryan's poem, this anonymous lament has more 
dignity and restraint; but the feeling shown is none the less sincere. Both 



NOTES 359 

poems, it is to be noted, accept the outcome of the war calmly and regard it 
as final — accept it without bitterness, but with pride for gallant deeds and 
sorrow for the dead. 

BRET HARTE 

254. John Burns of Gettysburg. Bret Harte was a master of the art of 
telling a story, whether in prose or verse, in a vivid and stirring way. John 
Burns is a good example of his narrative power. 

256: 21. Peninsula. General McClellan endeavored to capture Richmond, 
in 1862, by advancing up the peninsula between the James and York rivers. 
This unsuccessful movement is sometimes spoken of as the Peninsular 
Campaign. 

257 : 17. jVavarre. Henry of Navarre, the brilliant leader of the French 
Huguenots, was accustomed to wear a white plume as he led his men into 
battle. 

257 : 18. oriflamme, the early royal ensign of France. 

258. Chiquita. Bret Harte is the chief poet of the Pacific slope. He gave 
a touch of romance to the primitive life of the early gold seekers and other 
adventurers. Chiquita breathes of adventure, mingled with the grim humor 
so characteristic of rough pioneer days. 

259. The Aged Stranger. This is a good example of Bret Harte's humor. 
It is not of the most subtile kind, but it is racy of the soil and wholly 
American. 

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 

261. The Fool's Prayer. The compactness, finish, and noble ethical tone 
of this poem appeal to nearly all readers. 

262. The Future. An old theme is handled here with sincerity, piety, and 
imaginative power. 

263. Eve's Daughter. Lightness of touch, a graceful play of the imagina- 
tion, and felicity of phrase make this sonnet one of unusual charm. 

263 : 23. Dana'e was, in Grecian mythology, the daughter of Eurydice and 
beloved of Zeus. 

WILLIAM GORDON McCABE 

264. Christmas Night of '62. The fancies of a spirited young Confed- 
erate officer, dreaming in his tent at Christmas, are set forth with sympathy 
and sincerity. These lines no doubt record the feelings of the author him- 
self when he was a young soldier. 



360 NOTES 

JOAQUIN MILLER 

266. Columbus. Both native and foreign critics agree that this is one of 
the best poems produced in America. It is compact, direct, buoyant in spirit, 
and virile in thought. 

266 : I . Azores, a group of islands lying west of Gibraltar. 
266 : 2. Gates of Hercules, the Straits of Gibraltar. 

267. Westward Ho ! "A mighty nation moving vftst " is pictured so vividly 
that the imagination is easily stirred by it. Miller is the laureate of " bearded, 
stalwart, westmost men." 

SIDNEY LANIER 

269. Song of the Chattahoochee. The leaping movement of this lyric, as 
well as the haunting melody of the verse, will give popularity to this poem 
' after some of Lanier's more ambitious verse is forgotten. 

269: I, 2. Habersham and Hall are counties in northeastern Georgia, in 
the hill country. The Chattahoochee River rises in Habersham County, flows 
down through Hall in a southwesterly direction, and on into the Gulf of 
Mexico. 

271. Tampa Robins. Lanier showed his lighter, gayer side in these verses 
as well as his delight in out-of-door things. 

271 : 18. Gramercy, a French word meaning " many thanks," but generally 
used ironically in English, as, " I thank you for nothing." 

ETHEL LYNN BEERS 

272. All Quiet along the Potomac. While these lines may be imperfect 
in workmanship, they still give a vivid picture of a very grim reality ; and 
they make a human appeal which is far-reaching. 

WILLIAM TUCKEY MEREDITH 

273. Farragut. Admiral David G. Farragut, commanding the naval forces 
of the Union, entered Mobile Bay in 1864 and destroyed the land fortifica- 
tions and also one Confederate ram. He was greatly admired by his men. 
These verses, by an eyewitness, give a vivid and stirring picture of the 
admiral during the fight. 

RICHARD WATSON GILDER 

276. Sherman. These lines are a very just appreciation of the simple and 
straightforward character of General W. T. Sherman, who takes rank next 
to Grant among the generals on the Union side. 



NOTES 361 

276. Great Nature is an Army Gay. Mr. Gilder has here discarded the 
false poetic notion that nature sympathizes with the thoughts and feelings of 
man, and has adhered to the truth in speaking of her as one who cares naught 
for the affairs of human beings, but who goes on remorselessly in her appointed 
ways. This view of nature may appear cold and unattractive at first blush, 
but Mr. Gilder has handled it with impressive imaginative power. 

MARY WOOLSEY ROWLAND 

277. In the Hospital. It is said that this poem was found under the pillow 
of a wounded soldier near Port Royal, South Carolina, in 1864. After float- 
ing around in the newspapers for some years, it was put into a collection of 
verse by Mr. F. L. Knowles, The Golden Treasury of American Songs and 
Lyrics. " Its simplicity, directness, and truth of feeling," says Mr. Knowles, 
" are quite beyond praise." 

LLOYD MIFFLIN 

278. Sesostris. According to Grecian legend, Sesostris was a famous king 
and conqueror of ancient Egypt. He is sometimes identified with Rameses II. 
" He sits within the desert, carved in stone," as the most famous and colossal 
of all the sphinxes. He is for this reason poetically called " Sole Lord of 
Lords." 

278: 21. the sacred beetle. Beetles were carved upon monuments, and also 
used as ornaments in other ways, by the ancient Egyptians. They were 
regarded as mystic symbols. At this late day it is not known definitely what 
they symbolized. To the modern mind, they suggest dimly some sort of 
occult power. 

279 : 4. Presages doom. The death of so very great a king as Sesostris, 
and the obscuring of his fame by the lapse of years, foretells the doom of all 
kings, no matter how great. 

279 : 6. dark thrones. Thrones occupied by rulers who oppose the enlight- 
enment of the people. 

baleful air. The atmosphere of the neighborhood is called " baleful " be- 
cause it suggests the final ruin of all earthly kings. 

For both careful workmanship and imaginative vigor, this sonnet has few 
equals. 

MAURICE THOMPSON 

279. A Prophecy. This utterance of an old Confederate soldier is one of 
the many signs that good feeling has been restored among men of the best 
impulses, both North and South. 



362 NOTES 

279: 18. Mosby . . . Mahone. Colonel John S. Mosby was one of the most 
daring guerrilla chiefs on the Confederate side in the Civil War. General 
William Mahone rose to be one of Lee's division commanders, and particu- 
larly distinguished himself in the fights around Petersburg, Virginia, near the 
close of the war. 

279 : 19. If Wilder'' s wild brigade or Morgan^ s men. General Wilder was 
a Union cavalry leader, whose operations were often directed against General 
Morgan. 

General John H. Morgan was a bold Confederate cavalry raider, who 
operated mainly in Tennessee, Kentucky, and Ohio. He was killed at 
Greenville, Tennessee, near the close of the war. 

280 : 2. Sheridan . . . Cleburne. General Philip H. Sheridan was one 
of the ablest and most famous P'ederal cavalry leaders. He was at the head 
of Grant's cavalry at Appomattox. 

General Patrick Cleburne, a Confederate general, sometimes called " the 
Stonewall of the West," was killed at Franklin, Tennessee, in 1864. 

The prophecy contained in this poem, that if ever the United States should 
become engaged in a war with a foreign power, the veterans of both sides 
in the Civil War would stand shoulder to shoulder, was amply fulfilled in the 
Spanish-American War of 1898. 

WILL HENRY THOMPSON 

280. The High Tide at Gettysburg. A spirit of the broadest patriotism 
breathes through this poem written by a Confederate soldier about the greatest 
battle of the Civil War. In genuineness of feeling, in intensity, in vividness 
and vigor of both thought and expression, it is probably surpassed by no poem 
dealing with the Civil War. It seems to reach " the high tide " of the verse 
inspired by that great struggle. 

280 : 15. Pickett. General George E. Pickett, who made the last and fatal 
charge of the Confederates at Gettysburg. General Lee had pushed forward 
into Pennsylvania, in 1863, and met the Federal forces at Gettysburg under 
General Meade, and, after three days of fierce fighting, was forced to retreat 
southward. This battle was the turning point of the Civil War. The for- 
tunes of the Confederacy steadily waned, and culminated in Lee's surrender 
to Grant at Appomattox, in 1865. 

281 : 2. Pettigrew. General James Johnston Pettigrew, an accomplished 
Confederate officer, who was killed in a skirmish on the retreat from Gettys- 
burg. His North Carolina brigade took part in Pickett's charge. He trav- 
eled widely in Europe before the Civil War, and took the part of Italy in her 
war against Austria. He wrote a book about Spain and- the Spaniards. His 
early death was greatly lamented. 



NOTES 363 

281 : 3. A Kkamsiti wind. A hot, dry wind common in the deserts of 
Africa. 

281 : 6. Kemper. General J. L. Ivemper, wounded at Gettysburg ; after- 
ward governor of Virginia. 

281 : 7. Garnett. General R. B. Garnett, kilied while leading Pickett's 
charge. 

281 : 10. Arinistead. General L. A. Armistead, killed in Pickett's charge. 
He had also seen service in the Mexican War. 

281 : 20. Doubleday. General Abner Doubleday, a well-known Federal 
general, and also a veteran of the Mexican War. 

LATER PERIOD 

The poetry of this period reflects the spirit of the age. It displays, for 
instance, strong, sincere liking for all out-of-door things, a deep interest in 
social problems and in questions of human conduct, and a sober conscious- 
ness of national responsibility. On its lighter side, it is brightened by grace, 
sparkle, nimbleness of wit, and adroitness of manner. But whether the 
theme be grave or gay, there is always present a strong sense of form. The 
apt word, the illuminating phrase, the musical cadence, the quick and unex- 
pected play of the fancy — these are qualities generally present. Though 
there is undoubtedly absent some of the fire and deep feeling of the preceding 
age, — for the impulse given to poetic emotion by the Civil War has grown 
fainter and fainter, — yet there is in the poetry of this period a great deal that 
is admirable, both in spirit and in workmanship. 

What the future may bring forth, no man knows. The present is an age of 
vast industrial expansion, and very often it seems to care little for poetry ; 
but this impressive industrial progress may be preparing the way for an out- 
burst of imaginative expression later on. 

HENRY VAN DYKE 

283. Tennyson. Dr. van Dyke is one of the most enthusiastic students of 
Tennyson in America. He also enjoyed the intimate friendship of the great 
poet, and for this reason, as well as for others, he was peculiarly fitted to write 
this graceful, musical, and sincere lament. 

284. An Angler's Wish. These verses will meet a quick response from 
every one who lives most of his days within four walls, but who in his heart 
loves " God's blessed out-of-doors." 

286. The Song Sparrow. Dr. van Dyke has a faculty of making the 
very small things of earth contribute to the good cheer of the world. His 



364 NOTES 

whole-hearted joyousness in life shines through everything he writes, and is 
one of his most attractive qualities. 

EUGENE FIELD 

287. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. It is not too much to say that nobody 
in American letters has surpassed Eugene Field in writing graceful, tender, 
and endearing verses about children. 

289. Little Boy Blue. Field was- a master of both tears and laughter, 
which are often not far apart. This poem shows him at his best as a master 
of simple pathos. The thought is as old as humanity, but it never loses its 
interest when deftly expressed. 

EDWIN MARKHAM 

290. The Man with the Hoe. A very famous picture by the French 
painter Millet (1814-1875) represents a French peasant standing in the field 
leaning on his hoe, while with bowed head he repeats the prayer to the Virgin 
Mary, called the Angelus. He stops his work to obey the summons of the 
distant church bell. The glow of the setting sun makes the scene appear 
more than earthly. 

The painting suggests to the casual observer little more than instinctive 
obedience and reverence on the part of the simple peasant laborer ; but it 
suggested to Mr. Markham a very old question, namely, the inequality of 
men. If man is created in the image of God, why should some men always 
be hewers of wood while others sit clothed in purple ? Mr. Markham sets 
this down to the tyranny of rulers who oppress the ignorant, and he warns 
these rulers that a day of judgment will surely come. There is nothing 
novel about such opinions, but in this poem they are expressed so vividly^ 
and with such sincere feeling, that the reader's imagination is stirred and his 
sympathies aroused. 

291 : 7. Plato, an ancient Grecian philosopher, who reasoned much about 
the immortality of the soul. 

Pleiades, a cluster of seven stars in the constellation Taurus. 

JOHN VANCE CHENEY 

292. The Man with the Hoe. A Reply. Mr. Cheney does not think 
that the inequality of man is due entirely to the oppression of rulers. He 
suggests that there are certain laws of nature which operate in their appointed 
ways ; that those who rise do so by merit, and that those who fall are lacking 
in capacity ; and that, after all, the laboring man has rest and peace after 
his labor — pleasures often denied to kings. These ideas are no more 



NOTES 365 

novel than those expressed by Mr. Markham, but they are set forth in terse, 
apt, and vivid phrases, and not without human sympathy. 

Mr. Markham's poem seems somewhat influenced by the socialistic unrest 
of the age. Socialism would abolish competition in life, and reconstruct 
society on the basis of equal ownership of property. Mr. Cheney's poem, 
on the other hand, takes the conservative position that nature's laws should 
be left to work themselves out without too much meddling by man. 

Neither poem solves the problem, of course, nor is it ever likely to be 
solved until the coming of the millennium. 

EDITH MATILDA THOMAS 

294. Mother England. The complex feeling of an American woman of 
many gifts is effectively set forth in these lines. In them there is neither 
servility nor boastfulness ; but there is admiration, dignity, and love. The 
emotion expressed is no less real because it is touched with reserve. 

295. The Mother who died Too. Miss Thomas has the unusual gift of 
being able to express tender emotion without lapsing into sentimentality. She 
does it with restraint, with phrasing at once delicate and firm, and with ab- 
solute precision. 

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

296. The Old Man and Jim. These verses, written in the Hoosier dialect, 
have a homely pathos that makes an effective appeal to all hearts. 

298. Ike Walton's Prayer. The theme of this poem is old, but the desire 
for contentment is as old as the world, and is felt by every one ; and when 
expression is given to this feeling in language that appeals simply and directly 
to the imagination, it is sure to be widely appreciated. 

.CHARLES LEONARD MOORE 

300. To England. Many poems expressing sincere friendship for England 
have been written by Americans in the last few years, — especially since the 
two countries were drawn so closely together during the Spanish-American 
War of 1898, — but few have expressed so aptly, as does this poem of Mr. 
Moore's, the real attitude of cultivated and patriotic Americans toward the 
mother country. It freely acknowledges admiration and appreciation and 
racial kinship, but it is entirely free from either obsequiousness or bluster. Its 
tone is dignified and friendly, and it is enlivened by a graceful play of the 
imagination. 

301 : 25. Drake . . . Nelson . . . Bruce. Sir Francis Drake was a bold 
sea fighter in the time of Queen Elizabeth. He played an important part in 
the colonization of America. 



366 NOTES 

Lord Nelson, one of the most brilliant of the naval heroes of England, was 
killed at Trafalgar, off the coast of Spain, in 1805, at the moment of victory 
over the combined fleets of France and Spain. His last message signaled to 
the English fleet was — " England expects every man to do his duty." 

Robert Bruce, one of the popular heroes of Scotland, defeated the English at 
the battle of Bannockburn in 1314. As England and Scotland have long since 
become united, the heroic deeds of both countries are a common heritage. 

301 : 27. The rival Roses. This refers to the Wars of the Roses, in the 
fifteenth century, between the families of York and Lancaster. These wars 
ended with the succession to the throne of Henry VH. 

301 : 28. King . . . Roundhead. The "King" is Charles I, leader of the 
Cavaliers in the Civil War of the seventeenth century. " Roundhead " is an- 
other name for the Puritans, who, under Cromwell, brought Charles I to the 
block in 1649. 

CHARLES HENRY LUDERS 

303. The Four Winds. Few poems are more attractive than this in 
melody, aptness of phrase, and outdoor atmosphere. 

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER 

304. The Way to Arcady. For light, tripping movement, airy grace of 
thought, and gentle pathos that is pensive but not oppressive, these verses are 
widely admired. 

307. The Chaperon. The graceful play of Bunner's imagination is nowhere 
seen to better advantage than in these deftly turned lines. 

308 : 8. Midas was a king in ancient mythology who had the power of 
turning everything he touched into gold. Banner applies the term here to a 
young man whose mind is centered on wealth. 

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN 

309. On a Greek Vase. Mr. Sherman is excelled by few poets of the day 
for daintiness of fancy, lightness of touch, and perfection of form. 

309. On Some Buttercups. In these lines he shows the same graceful play 
of the imagination and refinement of feeling that mark most of his verses. To 
turn off an attractive poem on a light subject is not so easy as it seems. 

LOUISE IMOGEN GULNEY 

310. The Wild Ride. These verses suggest very vividly the struggles 
which have to be endured by every man who sets before him a high standard 
of conduct. 



NOTES 367 

RICHARD HOVEY 

311. The Call of the Bugles. The pulses are stirred by these lines as they 
are by the call of real bugles. Few martial poems are charged with such 
strong but restrained patriotic ardor, and with such real imaginative power. 

314. Unmanifest Destiny. A large and abiding hopefulness for the future 
of the country beats through these lines. It is the spirit which characterizes 
the best American patriotic feeling. It is devoid of boastfulness, and its tone 
is steady, confident, and aspiring. 

315. Love in the Winds. One of the most characteristic notes of later 
American poetry, as well as of American life, is its frank and sincere liking 
for out-of-door things. 

WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY 

316. Robert Gould Shaw. Colonel Shaw commanded the first negro regi- 
ment enlisted in the Civil War, the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts. He was killed 
while storming Fort Wagner, in Charleston Harbor, in 1863. An impressive 
bronze statue of Shaw, by St. Gaudens, stands on the summit of Beacon Hill, 
Boston. 

318. We are our Fathers' Sons. These lines were written in 1900, when 
the United States still held Cuba. They contain an impassioned call to public 
leaders to " let the island men go free," and a warning not to retain Cuba for 
the sake of material gain. 

319. On a Soldier fallen in the Philippines. At the close of the Spanish- 
American War, in 1898, the United States found herself confronted by new 
problems. New territorial possessions had come into her hands, and it was 
a question whether she should hold these possessions as colonies, or should 
grant them independence. There were, and are, many who take the position 
that she is doing violence to her traditions in withholding absolute liberty 
from these dependent peoples. The poem gives expression to this phase of 
American public opinion. 

CAROLINE DUER 

320. An International Episode. In order to prevent violence on the 
island of Samoa, English, German, and American battleships gathered in the 
harbor of Apia, in 1889, when a tropical hurricane fell suddenly upon the har- 
bor and destroyed or disabled every ship. Two American vessels, the Tren- 
ton and the Vandalia, were sunk, and fifty-two lives altogether were lost. 
The tornado lasted two days. Vessels smashed into one another or were 
dashed on the reefs. The English man-of-war Calliope had stronger engines 
than the rest, and put out to sea for self-preservation; and, as she sailed away, 



368 • NOTES 

a tremendous cheer went up from the American seamen, who, though dis- 
abled themselves, were glad to see their English cousins escape to a place 
of greater safety. 

GUY WETMORE CARRYL 

322. When the Great Gray Ships come In. These lines express fitly and 
nobly the feeling of most thoughtful Americans, perhaps, when they saw 
gathered in New York Harbor the imposing men-of-war fresh from Manila 
and Santiago. 

323 : 21. round heads, turn around. 

JOSEPH B. GILDER 

324. The Parting of the "Ways. The United States, the " Giant of the 
West," is here admonished not to become drunk with a sense of power, but 
to use her strength unselfishly to serve the weak. To use skill and power 
in such a chivalrous way is to reach unto the full stature of true nobility. 



